


Recovering

by AngelofDarkness1605



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-09-08 14:54:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 67,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8849317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelofDarkness1605/pseuds/AngelofDarkness1605
Summary: Spotting a distressed and no longer intimidating Mr. Gold in the hospital, amnesiac Belle returns the shards of his cup to him in an attempt to console him.





	1. Chapter 1

It takes a long time before she is somewhat calm again. Minutes, hours perhaps, or any other measure of time. Such measures have no meaning to her. All she has ever known is endlessness between four walls. The nothingness did end, eventually, but the events which have taken place since then are vague and at least as terrible.

There were screams and screeching noises, too bright lights and a crash, combined with pain and confusion. In the middle of the chaos and fear was a man who called her a name which is meaningless to her, who said so many things which she still doesn't understand. The intensity in his eyes scared her almost as much as the way he just wouldn't let go of her.

He wouldn't leave her alone when they were outside, but he appeared here as well. It seems strange for him to follow her to a place of which she doesn't know herself what it is exactly. She thinks she might be in the hospital, but how can the comfortable bed in the large room possible be the same place as the small cell underground where she has been for as long as she can remember?

Yet, he was here. He was yelling outside her room, his voice standing out among the noise of more people than she had ever heard before. The man had been there during the night as well, _kissing_ her. She has never been kissed, but she doesn't think that the panic caused by sudden lips pushing insistingly against her own is what kissing is supposed to be like.

He had disappeared at her screams, but he returned this afternoon to fuss over a damaged cup which looked to her like more trouble than it was worth. There was little room to consider that though when he forced her to hold the item of fragile porcelain, only leaving her alone again after yet more panic caused her to smash the cup against the very walls of the building which had held her captive for so long.

He has been gone for quite some time now and she finally isn't terrified any longer, but she still doesn't have a clue why he was so intend for her to hold that particular, _stupid_ cup in the first place.

She wishes that she knew how she got hurt and why she is in such a large room all on her own. She wants to know why that man won't leave her alone.

She doubts whether she'll get any answers. There is no one who has actually talked to her, no one but _him_ , and he doesn't make any sense. There are few things she knows of the world outside the small room which has been her only reality for as long as she can remember, but she is certain that there is no such thing as the magic which he keeps talking of.

He might be mad, but she has always been told that _she_ is and she has never held such bizarre notions as the man who appears wherever she goes. She has always felt numb, empty, and for as far as she can tell the man is anything but. If anything, it looks like he thinks and feels too much.

Her thoughts are focused on the mysterious man so much that the sudden noise from outside initially doesn't register. But when it repeats itself, again and again with somewhat regular intervals, she becomes gradually aware of it.

Tensing at the disturbed silence, she pulls the blanket tighter around for comfort of a kind it can't provide. She is all alone, in a world which is completely unfamiliar to her, and she has never learned to fend for herself. She hasn't been taught to react properly to danger, or to decide whether situations are threatening or not to begin with.

All she knows is that she is defenseless and that there is someone - or something - in the hallway outside her room. Straining her ears, she dismisses the possibility of the sounds being caused by a nurse or another staff member. She has watched them all day, for a lack of anything better to do, and knows that they don't linger there.

Curiosity gets the better of her, probably hugely encouraged by her desire to _do_ something now that she is out of the locked room where she has been forced to spend so much time. She has no idea whether she'll have to get back there, so now that she is still somewhat free she might as well take advantage of the previously unknown luxury of finding out what is beyond the doorstep.

She gets up as quietly as she can, surprised by the way her legs hold her weight easily. She expected herself to be weak after being confined to a single, small room for as long as she had, but she finds herself much stronger than she anticipated. It's almost as if she has actually walked - _lived_ \- instead of being locked up.

Her feet are bare and although the floor is cold, she is glad for the lack of shoes. She can be more quiet this way, and she isn't used to wear anything on her feet anyway.

She crosses the room with surprisingly confident steps in mere seconds, but there is no time to consider how that ease of movement might be possible. The sound which roused her grows stronger when she gets closer to its source and she's anxious to find out what is causing it, who or what is just outside her view.

She doesn't see anything which she hasn't seen earlier that day when she reaches the glass doors which separates her new room from the hallway; whatever she has heard must be further along. Intuitively holding her breath, she pokes her head around the door, looking in both directions.

She abruptly withdraws her head only a second later, quickly retreating to the relative safety of the room. It shouldn't surprise her, not after what has happened so far, but she is taken aback by finding _him_ sitting at the end of the hallway.

She leans back against the wall, trying to calm her by now raging breath, expecting him to rush towards her and do something else to upset her. She has been quiet so far and she doesn't think he has spotted her, but that man can do _things_ with fire and light, and she doesn't trust him in the slightest.

The sound continues, louder than ever before. Now that she is closer to it and is reasonably sure that it's caused by a person, it's a lot easier to recognize. Someone is _crying_ and as strange as it seems, the man who never stops being near her – never stops scaring her – is the one who is doing so.

It's the only explanation that he is the one who is making these sounds, but it doesn't make any sense to her. Still, she has to know for certain, if only so she'll never have to doubt her observations when she is back in the nothingness of her room in the basement.

She dares another soundless and very brief peek, just to make sure. She finds him exactly where he was before. By now knowing what she's looking for, his slumped, trembling shoulders are difficult to miss, just like the way his face is covered by his hands, even with the current distance which safely separates them.

He hardly looks like the demanding, intimidating man he was so far. That's probably the only reason that she doesn't flee the very room to find a place where he can't come near her again.

She lingers on the threshold instead, only her head poking into the hallway as she keeps her gaze on the man. She is conflicted, for the first time struggling to make up her mind regarding him. She was afraid of him before, but now that he is sitting there like that, his shuddering sobs still not ceasing, he doesn't look that scary at all.

If anything, he looks utterly lost. If there's something she's familiar with, it's the feeling of being all alone in the world, of having nothing to live for. In a way, he looks now like she has so often felt herself.

She remembers his cup, how sad he was when she smashed it against the wall, almost like his heart broke along with that damaged and seemingly useless piece of china. It seems a bit silly to react like this because of a broken cup, but she has been locked up all this time so what does she know?

She eyes the shards on the floor, lying exactly where they have been since the moment that the impact of her blow broke them away from one another. As guilt overwhelms her, so does an idea.

Much as the notion of actually approaching him would have terrified her until a moment ago, it doesn't seem all that bad now to at least give the remains of the cup back to him. That way, he won't have to come to her room again to get them himself - somehow, she _knows_ he wants them back - and she might have the chance to apologize. He should have left when she asked him to, but destroying his cup was not the solution to make him leave - not the right one, at least.

She quietly picks up the shards, making sure to collect all of them. When she has, she returns to the threshold and peeks to the other side of the hallway, reassured to find two nurses at the station. If anything goes wrong, she'll call out for them.

Taking a deep breath, she leaves the relative safety of the room and heads for the man on the uncomfortable looking hospital chair, his head still buried in his hands. She tries to be strong and calm... to be brave. It is important for a reason she can't explain.

He doesn't look up as she approaches him, clearly not hearing her. She definitely hears him though, the sound of his sadness upsetting her in a way that takes her aback. It's not just that he is a stranger whose emotions shouldn't upset her this much; he's a stranger who has scared her with everything he has said and done. In the quietness of the dark and mostly deserted hospital, it's however almost as if his sadness is her own.

Sitting there like that, all but curled up into himself, he is much smaller than she remembers. He seemed so tall and strong when they were on the road in the forest, so imposing when he approached her in the very bed she just left. But now... now he looks like a man who is defeated by his own despair.

"I wanted to give you this."

Keeping the distance between them as large as practically possible, she shows him the pieces of broken china in her hands. Whether he's tall or not, in that moment she feels tiny indeed.

His head snaps up and she extends her arms more fully to bring the shards to his attention, hoping that she hasn't just made a horrible mistake. He doesn't even glance at the remains of his cup though, only stares at her in that deeply unnerving way of his.

His eyes are the same whirlpools of emotion as before, their intensity almost tangible. But she is somewhat prepared for that now and she stands her ground, looking straight back at him.

Long seconds pass in which they simply stare at one another. He makes no attempt to approach her, maintaining the distance between them, which allows her to relax slightly.

It's like she truly sees him for the first time only now. It's doubtlessly helped by the tears which are still dripping down his cheeks, but it's so much more than that. In the first somewhat calm moment they share, he hardly seems like the madman she took him for earlier.

Indeed, there is something desperate about him, but it doesn't appear to be as threatening as before at all. Similarly, the haunted look on his face that she was only partly aware of before is so much more obvious to her now. Whatever drove this man to act the way he did in their earlier meetings, she can see now that there was no malevolent intend behind it.

Encouraged, she steps slightly closer to him, aiming to hand him the shards. She dare not presume what he might want to do with them, but it was earlier obvious that the cup means very much to him.

"I'm sorry," she says timidly, lowering her gaze to the shards in her palms with the hope that he will follow her.

"There's no need to apologize. None whatsoever. I should be the one to..."

His voice is hoarse, lacking all his earlier certainty. For the first time she genuinely wonders why he is reacting like this. No matter how much the cup meant to him, it seems a bit much for him to break down like this due to the broken china.

"You already did," she says, only now fully recalling his muttered apology and the look of complete horror on his face when he regarded the remains of the cup. "I can't fix it, but maybe you can..."

She isn't sure how to continue that sentence, whether the magic he keeps talking about would provide a solution. That notion would be a ridiculous one. It _is_ , because there's no such things as magic. And yet, he did something to her shoulder, something to make the pain go away, in a way that shouldn't be possible.

No longer afraid to do so, she closes the last distance between them, holding her hands up in front of him to give the shards to him. Instead of taking them, he turns away from her, muttering something unintelligible, the lump in his throat almost audible.

"I can throw them away if you don't want them..."

She attempts to find out what she should say and do to make this better, to figure out what he _wants_ , but he only cringes at her words.

Yet more confused, she can only stand there, her eyes fixed on his back. He is scaring her again, but in a way which couldn't differ more from what he did before.

For whatever reason, he is hurt and she can't stand the sight of it. She wants him to feel better, wants to _help_ him feel better, but she doesn't have a clue how she might achieve that.

His shoulders are shaking, the same sounds as before escaping him. He is crying right in front of her and that too seems impossible, for he seemed so certain and strong before. This way, he is just as small as she has always felt.

"You... you should go," he says, not turning around to face her and his voice barely audible. "Go back to your room. I promise you that I won't bother you again. I won't come back for you, unless you ask me to. You... you won't have to see again. You _won't_ see me again. You have my word. When... _if_ you would like me to visit I'd be more than happy to meet you again, but I guarantee that it won't happen if you don't want me to s..."

His voice breaks as he leans as far away from her as he can without actually getting up. She spots his cane, lying forgotten on the floor beneath his chair, just out of his reach. But it's more than the unavailability of something to lean on that is holding him back; it's like his body is simply failing him.

"Please, just _go._ "

Before, these words were the last she expected from him. Before, she would for once have done nothing rather than do exactly as he says. Before, she was oblivious to the sadness which is consuming him, the despair which haunts him.

He places a gloved hand against the wall to steady himself, his fist clenched yet trembling as he is struggling to compose himself and loses the battle. He sniffles noisily, making a gesture with his still free hand to wipe the tears away from his face.

At the sight of it, she knows for once exactly what to do.


	2. Chapter 2

The man in front of her has his back towards her and lowers his head, almost as if to make himself invisible to her. It's difficult to believe that this hurt, _broken_ human being is the same one who terrified her several times in the past few days. This way, he looks like he isn't capable of hurting anybody even if he wanted to.

But there are at least a few memories which don't betray her and she knows only too well how afraid she has been of him. Still, now that she has seen him like this and briefly talked to him, she's beginning to understand that he's not what he seemed at first. If anything, it seems like he is afraid of _her_ and her reactions to him.

Something deep inside of her aches at seeing him like this. She doesn't really understand that sentiment, but she can't deny that the longer she remains standing there, the less she can endure his sorrow.

Taking a proper look at him for the first time, Belle sees that his eyes are less dark than she thought. They had seemed black at first, almost just as dark as his pupils, but it turns out that his irises are a pleasant shade of brown, almost gold in the harsh light of the hospital hallway.

She is still holding the remains of the cup which she broke earlier that day. She deposits the shards carefully on a small table at her side before turning herself towards him. His back is still facing her, which is why she makes sure to rest her hand on his shoulder as carefully as she possibly can.

He tenses immediately, and so does she, not really knowing what she is doing, let alone how he might react.

"What... what are you doing?"

She hushes him, if only because she doesn't know the answer to his question. At the same time, she moves her hand slightly downwards, caressing him in which she hopes is a soothing way. He relaxes, but only slightly.

It occurs to her that it isn't just the unexpectedness of her gesture which is catching him off guard; it's as if he truly doesn't expect her to touch him, especially not as carefully as this. It strengthens her belief that she is doing the right thing, despite not really understanding either her tendency to help him or the mysterious man himself.

"Try to relax," she mutters, very much aware of the tension in his shoulders, spreading through most of his body from there by the looks of it.

He calms a little more at her words, leaning back slightly to be closer to her. She doesn't mind the increased nearness, his presence not bothering her at all now. Quite the opposite. There's something familiar about having him so close to her, something almost... soothing.

She places her other hand on his shoulder as well, stroking the unyielding surface. She has never touched anyone like this before - for as far as she can tell, she never touched anyone to begin with. Still, her hands know exactly what to do, finding a way to touch him on their own accord.

Some of the tension leaves him, but the sniffling noises only intensify. Presuming that he doesn't want her to touch him, or at least not like this, she abruptly withdraws.

"Am I doing it wrong?"

She hates herself for having to ask, for being so ignorant, but she wants to make this man feel better and it seems that she can't do so without his help.

His head is not entirely turned away from her as he shakes it in response, tears dripping down his cheeks as he does so. It's all the confirmation she needs. She pulls him towards her again, until his head is leaning on her shoulder and her hand is on his arms. A tangible shudder goes throughout him and after a long second he goes limp against her.

She gasps in shock when he slouches against her; not because of his suddenly overwhelming closeness, but because it seems as if all strength has deserted him.

Not wanting him to slide down to the floor, she wraps her arms around him and holds on to him, supporting his weight as well as she can.

He only shakes harder when she embraces him, his arms remaining at his side, just as unused as the rest of him. He is too quiet for a few seconds, as if he has ceased to breath as well, but then something inside of him appears to break.

The earlier sniffling becomes outright crying and although she knows nothing but her own, soundless tears in the night, she can tell that this man's despair and sadness equals her own.

She has no idea what is going on, why he hurts so very much. His anxiety scares her in its intensity, but not like the way he himself did before. He isn't threatening now, couldn't differ more from the intimidating man he appeared to be just a few hours ago.

Although the reason is unknown to her, he turns to her for comfort and she is not going to let him down. It's not just that this is for her the first time to do something, to be useful and _needed_ , but much more because she want to help this stranger. He might be frightening, earlier at least, but he fascinates her, and never more so than he does now, breaking down in her arms.

His face pressed awkwardly against her shoulder, she intuitively guides his head to the juncture of her shoulder and her neck, finding the fit to be perfect. His chest partly moves against her as a result and she gasps at the sensation of being this close to someone else.

For as long as she can remember, the only touches she has known are unpleasant, inflicted upon her, when the people who held her in the small room forcefully stopped her whenever she tried to get away. There were other people when she woke up on the road in the forest, but they too touched her only to bring her to a place where she didn't want to go, and keep her there.

This man was one of them, but as she considers him once more, she realizes that he had no part in bringing her here. He healed her, somehow, and wouldn't leave her alone until the others put her in a moving vehicle, but he didn't make her do things she didn't want to do.

Indeed, now that she thinks of it, he has thoroughly scared her several times in the past few days, but not a single time he did anything to hurt her or forced her to go to places where she didn't want to go. More than that, he _helped_ her, making an end to the pain that hurt her arm so very much.

That knowledge makes it only more natural for her to hold the man as he cries, attempting to decrease the sadness that is consuming him. She isn't the woman who he thinks she is, nor the woman who he wants her to be, but that won't prevent her from trying to make him feel a little better.

His tears are sliding hotly down her skin, beneath the gown that she was given. The sensation isn't an unfamiliar one, but to feel another human being's tears is not something she ever expected. She wished that she had, if only because it might have somewhat prepared her for this situation, for finding herself with someone who might be just as lonely and lost as she is herself.

She pats him awkwardly on the back, hoping that the gesture can provide some of the comfort he so obviously needs. As a result, he only cries harder. Belle doesn't know much, but she is certain that this is not supposed to happen. She can't be _that_ bad at supporting someone else, even with her lack of experience, or can she?

Time passes, probably, but none of his earlier strength returns to him and even the iron will with which he approached her again and again seems to have vanished. Even just lying against her shoulder appears to be too much of an effort. He slides lower even as he clings to her, boneless, and he ends up with his face in her lap, all but burying himself in the fabric of the unpleasant gown.

Making sure that he remains lying there and isn't about to fall on the floor, she brings her hands to his head and continues to stroke his unexpectedly soft hair.

She is certain that she has never touched anyone like this either, but these motions feel familiar to her as well, as if she knows exactly how to comfort this very man. If only she wouldn't know for a fact that she has spend all her years in a small cell and that she has never seen him until a few days ago, she'd be tempted to think that he actually means something to her... that they truly know each other.

She only becomes aware that she is crying herself when salty liquid drops from her face to the back of his head, slightly wetting his long hair.

The obvious explanation is that her very first confrontation with such utter sadness of someone else has triggered a similar reaction from her. But as she experimentally strokes his scalp, in the way she imagines a mother soothing her child, it almost feels like their sorrow is connected, like they share the same grief.

It's ridiculous, of course, for she doesn't know him. She hasn't even seen him until a few days ago, when she woke up on the road in the forest.

She hastily wipes her tears away, not wanting the man to see them. It's not that she is ashamed of this display of unexplained grief, but she senses that it will only add to his own sadness, something she whole-heartedly wants to avoid.

He is all but curled up against her now, his head resting on her thigh and his arms locked securely around her waist, one of his leg pulled upwards towards his chest. He looks decisively uncomfortable in a way that goes beyond his emotional breakdown, especially with the awkward angle of his other leg, which looks as if he can't quite move it like he wants to. She supposes this is the reason that he uses a cane.

She shifts slightly, hoping to accommodate their embrace better, and guides his right leg onto the row of adjoined plastic chairs which he is basically using as a bed now, with her lap as his pillow.

He becomes somewhat quiet and less uncontrolled after only a long while, in which she doesn't cease to touch him gently. He never loosens his grip on her though, as if he is afraid - convinced, even - that she'll be gone the second he lets go off her waist just a little.

Minutes after he has gone completely silent at last, he presses his face more tightly against her for a moment, then withdraws. Despite his unusual pose, he manages to sit up without much difficulty, immediately distancing himself from her.

When he meets her gaze again, there is no trace of the tears which slid down the skin of both of them just a while ago, but the redness and puffiness of his eyes is undeniable. She has seen such a display far too often, in the small mirror in the cold room where she had to take a shower every once in a while.

"I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have..."

He shakes his head, as if dismissing whatever words he intended to say even as he speaks them.

"It's alright," she tries, wanting to convince him that it's no trouble for her at all to have held him like this, to have seen the man who appears to hide behind an otherwise completely composed facade.

"It's not. Really, it's not. I..."

There's another shake of his head, more frustrated this time, pained almost, as he searches for the words which he needs to tell her what he wants to.

He doesn't continue though, just stares at her as if he can't believe that she's here, with him... as if he's surprised that she's alive.

It's completely unnerving, but in a way that couldn't differ more from the way he upset her before.

"Sir?"

She has no idea how else to break the ever increasing silence between them, just like she isn't certain how else to address him. She has vague memories of the others calling him 'Gold', but it feels wrong to call him that, the name not suiting him the way it should.

He flinches as she addresses him as such. The ache at both being unable to understand why this upsets him so much and the fact that he is for some reason hurt because of something she subconsciously said, borders on being physically painful.

"What's your name?

Something which might be hope flickers in his gaze at her question. She isn't certain whether it's a good idea to be talking like this to the man who scared her, to directly ask him questions, but he is currently still meeker than anyone she has known in the short time of being outside the horrible room in the basement.

"People call me Mr. Gold," he replies, keeping his gaze solely focused on her. She doesn't find it as unsettling as before at all. "But you can call me Rumple, if you'd like."

He doesn't offer her any more information, although there clearly is so much more, his name alone reminding her of untold mysteries and secrets. She recalls the fire which appeared in his hand, the magic he kept talking about. She has far from forgotten at all about the stealthy, unwanted kiss and the way he ranted about the cup and his castle.

Obviously, there is much more to him than he is willing to share with her now, but this time she is actually glad because of that. After all the bizarre things he has said and done around her, she is relieved that he is giving relatively normal, understandable answers now.

"Rumple," she repeats, trying the name. It's a sort of name she didn't suppose existed, not once during all the time she has had with nothing but the content of her mind for entertainment. The two syllables suit him though, somehow more so than the name by which others apparently know him.

If his small smile is anything to go by, her reaction pleases him. It's the first time she has seen him smile and she finds herself thinking that she wouldn't have been so afraid of him if he would have looked at her like this before. The mere tug of his lips changes his entire expression, displaying a gentleness she couldn't have imagined until now.


	3. Chapter 3

She isn't surprised that the peacefulness doesn't last long. She has never known any calmness after all and there is no reason to presume that she would get much of it now that she is getting to know this unusual man.

"Can you tell me your name?" the man, who wants her to call him Rumple, asks quietly.

She smiles a little herself at his question. Everyone has been calling her 'Belle' so far, ignoring her when she exclaimed that it isn't her name. He might have been the most insistent, before, but at least he's giving her the chance now to make clear for once and for all that she is not the woman everybody seems to think she is.

"I'm..."

Her eyes widen in horror when she is inwardly scrambling for that single word, the most important one of all. It is on the tip of her tongue, and yet, no matter how hard she tries, she can't fully recall it.

"I... I don't know," she whispers after several long seconds, panic welling up inside of her. "How can I not know my own name? How could I not know that I _don't_ know?"

She casts a pleading look at him, hoping and almost expecting that he can provide her with some sort of answer, that he can bring some sense into the world which she has never understood, but which was never as confusing to her as it is right now.

"You knew once," he says, slowly and very carefully, those intent eyes never leaving her and making her feel as if not everything is hopeless. There is worry in them, and so very much pain. She wonders whether his grief has appeared recently or that it has been there since the day she first saw him, and that she simply hasn't noticed before. "You had a life, outside the hospital. But there was an... accident. Your memories were taken from you when we were at the town line, in the forest."

The words fully register in her mind after only a few seconds. It seems ridiculous. She _does_ remember. She has been in the hospital... for as far as she can tell, she always has been.

But his theory _does_ explain how she could end up on the road in the forest, with no idea how she got there. Indeed, for as long as she remembers she has longed to get out of the cell where she has been kept, to see the world that must be beyond the small windows of the tiny room where she is forced to spend her life. She wouldn't have just forgotten the very first time she left the hospital – not unless there was a very good reason to.

She recalls how easy it was to walk, how her legs had no trouble carrying her weight whatsoever, despite having hardly been used for as long as she can recall. Having had an actual life, _freedom_ , would explain that.

And yet, she does remember the room in the basement of the hospital - only too well. She can take exactly four steps from the back to the front, and less than three from one side to the other. Tasteless meals are brought three times a day and she is allowed to take a brief, cold shower in the bathroom at the end of the corridor once a week. And every once in a while, _she_ visits her. Just the thought of the dark haired woman with the cruel eyes makes her shiver.

The man who prefers to be called Rumple, by her at least, notices immediately. He leans slightly towards her, his hands extended, almost as if he wants to hold her. He withdraws almost as soon as he started moving however.

She should be relieved that he keeps his distance. She would have been, earlier. Now she almost wishes that he would get closer to her, because somewhere deep inside of her she senses that she feels better when she is in his arms.

He settles for reaching for her hands, only taking them in his own when he has brushed his pleasantly warm fingers tentatively against hers and she doesn't withdraw. The gesture seems somewhat awkward, but she isn't sure whether he doesn't know how to hold anyone's hands or because he's nervous touching _hers –_ but then again, she has no point of reference for such things herself.

The panic that arose within before recedes somehow as she firmly reminds herself that no matter what's going on, no matter what has happened to her, she is at least safe for the time being. There is someone looking out for her now, even protecting her perhaps.

"It had to do with the crash," she mutters, realization dawning. It's the first time that something actually makes sense. She woke up after all while lying on the road, injured, with a damaged vehicle nearby.

He nods in reply, confirming her conclusion, but the way he moves his head just a bit too enthusiastically tells her that is more to the story. Finding that he is eager for her to accept anything less than the full truth doesn't upset her as much as it would have done before. That makes it easier to collect her thoughts and consider her words in order to reveal as much of the truth regarding her own life as she can.

"But I... I remember the hospital. I remember _being here_ , downstairs, for a long time."

"That's because you were," he says, the sadness and regret in his eyes only increasing. "You were freed a few months ago. You created a life for yourself in the town. It seems you lost those memories in the accident."

"But how can I remember one thing and not the other?" she asks, trying to come to terms with the apparent fact that she was free for at least a while, despite not recalling any of it. "There's more going on, isn't there?"

"There is," he confirms after a while, lowering his head and sounding more resigned than she's heard him before, even when she broke his cup. "But I don't think telling you now is a wise course of action. It's not easy. You... your life has not been easy. For the time being, you might be better off not knowing all of it."

"What if I want to?"

She asks it more out of curiosity than anything else. She's confused enough as it is and she doesn't want to make it any worse, not straight away at least. She probably wouldn't know what to make of the things that might be told to her, not without knowing anything about who she actually is, who she was while she wasn't locked up in the hospital.

"You've got friends who could tell you about it. You spent time with miss Lucas. Miss Blanchard and miss Swan would be delighted to talk to you as well. And there is your father, of course."

Especially his last words are spoken with reluctance. Apparently, he doesn't really want her to talk to any of these people, not yet at least, but it's something that she can't consider right now. Similarly, she is very much aware that he doesn't mention himself as someone who she could talk to in order to find out about her life. But that too has to wait, since the person who he mentioned last dominates her thoughts for the time being.

"My father..."

She shakes her head, trying to remember the man who must have raised her. She didn't really know that she _has_ a father, but at his mention there is a feeling both of comfort and dread in her stomach. It's as conflicting as just about everything she has experienced since finding herself injured on the road in the forest.

More than ever before, she's aware that she might not be who she thinks she is, that she possibly has had a life which she can't remember. Whether that's really the case or not, at this point there's no denying that all the people she's met in the past few days, and this man in particular, apparently know more about her than she does about herself.

Perhaps the most unexplainable, the most _disturbing_ , is that they seemingly all say the same things about her and the life which can't be hers.

"All of you know me as Belle, don't you?" she says quietly, the words as much a question as as statement.

The man opposite her nods, this time without doubt or reluctance.

"I _am_ Belle."

He nods again, but with a decreased conviction which she doesn't fail to notice.

"You are Belle," he hastily says at her change of expression. "But you don't have the memories that make you Belle... or at least, not the Belle I... _we_ know. But I'll find a way to reverse it, to give you back your memories. It may take a time, but I'm going to find a way."

She listens closely to his reply, considering the girl who she is and the woman who she is supposed to be, according to the people she's met. It's as confusing as it is wonderful, an undeniable part of her wanting to have the life those people are hinting at... to _be_ the woman who is free and has people, _friends_ , who care for her.

"Would it be all right for me to... be Belle?"

She might be Belle according to him and the others, but she doesn't _feel_ like Belle, whoever she is or has been. The last thing she want is being an impostor, to try to be someone who she is not. And yet...

She expected him to agree immediately, given how eager he was before. But he is reluctant to answer her, studying her intently instead. She can almost _see_ the carefully considered thoughts running through his head, along with the strong emotions which all but consume him whenever they meet. It's easy to imagine the two extremes clashing violently, rationality and emotion struggling for domination within him.

The silence grows and she becomes uncomfortable once more as she thinks of the answers he might give her. The way he tried to bring back her memories earlier implies that he really, _really_ wants her to be the woman he remembers with such fondness.

But that doesn't change that she isn't that woman any longer, not as long as she can't recall anything of the life she apparently had. Indeed, Belle highly doubts that she could be the woman she is said to be even if she wanted to as desperately as this man does.

"You should be who you want to be. In a way, you are the woman who I know. But without your memories... But you are your own person no matter what. I think you should try to be what feels true to you."

She nods at his words, agreeing. It's not just that she's intuitively the most comfortable with this option; she wouldn't really know how else to approach the unknown life ahead of her.

"Thank you," she says, placing a hand on his arm with only some hesitance to empathize her words. She isn't certain whether that gesture will help to make clear to him that she is truly grateful that he gives her helpful advice and is so willing to support her in the first place.

Judging from the way he smiles a little and carefully covers her hand with his own, just for a moment, she has definitely succeeded.

She makes a point of storing this information to the back of her mind, intend on making new memories in case it's true that she can't access her old ones. Either way, she is more and more convinced that she wants to spend more time with this man. She wants to get to know him better, to comfort him again if needed, and such gestures will perhaps be very useful in the future.

"And thank _you_ ," he says, adding to her confusion by repeating her earlier words of gratitude. His words are so heartfelt that they seem to refer to much more than the way she just held him, which is the only reason she can think of for him to express such thankfulness.

"Whatever for?" If anything, she has only upset him so far, no matter how inadvertently. "As far as I can remember I've met you only a few times, and all I seem to do is hurt you."

"I was the one who upset you," he says, raising his voice slightly. "I shouldn't have pushed you and I can't apologize enough for doing so. You were... frightened of me. And yet, you came to me when you saw me here. You helped me when you didn't have any reason to do so. And you did it anyway."

"I'm glad I did. It's true that you scared me, before, but... you are not like I thought you were."

She studies him, focusing merely on his physical appearance for the first time now that he just sits there, patiently enduring her gaze.

His suit is rumpled and she has never seen anything quite like the various layers of black material, but she can tell that his clothing is as beautiful and impressive as it must be expensive. She recalls that he walked with the aid of a cane and that his leg was awkwardly bended when she held him, but there's no visible injury that would require such a tool now that he is sitting next to her like this.

His hair is quite long, much more so than any of the men she has seen when she was brought back to the hospital. The strands are dark, the bits of gray she spots limited to his temples. His cheeks and chin are stubbled and there are wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, but his skin is tanned and mostly smooth.

"You are kind to an old man," he mutters, as if the mere lack of disgust in her eyes is an unexpected compliment. It helps her identify his tone as self-conscious and informs her that he thinks really quite lowly of himself.

"You're not old," she replies, almost intuitively. She pointedly meets his gaze, wanting to make an end to the loathing in his voice. She imagines that she could get lost in the depths of his eyes, possibly the most striking part of him. There's something in there, something more golden than brown and so very deep, which gives her the strange impression that he isn't necessarily referring to his physical age.

There's so much pain in his eyes, evidence of such loneliness and suffering, almost too much for a single lifetime. She knows these feelings so very well and yet, her expression wasn't nearly as haunted and lost as his whenever she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror in the washing room.

"You tend to say that," he replies, his voice barely audible and with so much hope and disbelief that she can barely stand it.

"I can imagine," she says, just as softly. Her cheeks turn red at this admission and she is vaguely shocked to speak out loud like this, but she wants him to know that his age doesn't bother her in the slightest.

She very clearly recalls the sensation of slightly chapped yet soft lips against her own, finding this particular memory not nearly as terrifying as before. Although she doesn't dare speculate how she would react to him this time, she most definitely wouldn't scream now if he were to kiss her once more.

He is not the sort of man she imagined herself sharing her life with when she had nothing but empty fantasies to pass the time. Yet now that she is getting to know him like this, she can imagine having been in love with this man... and falling in love with him all over again.


	4. Chapter 4

Her thoughts of kisses and romance, of _love_ , remind her that he never said that they are in a relationship of such a kind. It seems so obvious, despite that, from the way he looks at her – and can't stop doing so - to the way he doesn't want to let go off her.

She shouldn't know these things, not if she has actually been locked up all this time. Still, the awareness that her life isn't what she thinks it is, is becoming at least just as strong as her earlier conviction that none of this can be real. But despite the never ending implications, he hasn't actually _said_ it.

"We... we were together, weren't we?"

She wants – _has_ – to be certain, needs to find out as much about her supposed life as she can. She doesn't want to misunderstand, to be unaware... not again.

"Yes, we are. _Were_ , I should say. Even before your accident, we..."

He shakes his head, as if forcing himself to stop talking that way. His confusion and frustration is almost palpable. She can completely relate to that sentiment, especially because his reply, albeit short and direct, causes only more questions of her own.

"Were we married?"

She already is quite certain that this is not the case, if only for the lack of wedding ring on his finger. It's another of those things that she _knows_ without knowing. She just hopes that starting with a question that is relatively simple to answer will make it easier for him to share more complicated matters with her.

"We weren't," he replies without reluctance, a brief flicker of longing telling her that he regrets this.

"Were we together for a long time?"

She wishes she was better at this, that she could pry for information without being so very obvious about it. But this is important; at least knowing of the nature of the relationship between herself and this man might finally give her some of the peace of mind she has been craving all this time.

"Time is quite... relative here. But no, we haven't been together for long. We have known each other for only a while."

"For how long have we known each other?" she prompts, grateful for the easiness of her next question now that her mind is swimming almost more than it has done since waking up outside the hospital a few days ago.

"About a year. We've been... together for a few weeks. We lived together, in my house, before you moved to an apartment of your own."

Grateful as she is that he provides this information without further questions, these answers too only add to her confusion. By the sound of it, they have barely known each other, had a relationship that couldn't have been more than a few months old.

Yet, he looks at her like she is such a major part of his life, as if he can't truly exist without her... and there something inside of her, somewhere, that relates.

"It hasn't been easy. I'm... I'm a difficult man to love. And there are people who... I have enemies. Some of them used you to strike against me. That's how you ended up here... both times."

She clings to his every word, her entire being focused on what he is telling her, but she finds it almost impossible to process what he is saying. She can imagine - quite easily, in fact - for a man such as him to have enemies who are willing to go great lengths to hurt him. But to use _her_ , apparently causing her to end up in the hospital not once but twice...

"Try not to worry," he adds, eyes pleading with her as if he wishes that he could take back what he just said, if only not to add to her anxiety. "You are safe now. I'll do whatever it takes to make sure that no harm comes to you ever again."

There's something in his eyes, something so very earnest and hopeful and _fierce_ that she is immediately and fully convinced of his sincerity.

"But why me?" she asks, aware of what he is saying but not entirely understanding it. "Why use me to hurt you?"

"Because the people who want to hurt me know that you are all what matters to me here," he says, his hand reaching for hers in the periphery of her vision. "Because I..."

He swallows harshly, pulling his hand away before it has touched hers.

"Because you what?" she urges as gently as she can, needing to hear it, to be entirely sure that it's _real_.

She covers his hand with her own, the gesture slightly awkward in its unusualness - for her, at least. Still, there is an unexpected pleasantness in the gentle touch, something which she wishes to learn more of - to _have_ more of.

"Belle..."

He all but chokes on the name of which she knows by now that it is hers, tears welling in his eyes. Although the name still feels so very unfamiliar, so completely unlike her, it doesn't sound that wrong and intimidating any longer as it is being uttered by him like this.

The man opposite her is so lost, so broken, barely capable of speech. She can see now that _this_ is what drove him to inadvertently scaring her earlier. Not anger or any of the harmful reasons she presumed, but affection and tenderness and...

"Because I love you."

He looks up at her several seconds after speaking, his expression raw and so very vulnerable, as if he expects her to tear out his heart and squash it below her feet, right in front of him.

It's as if a mask has fallen away. Whoever he might be, whoever he wants to be, it's like she's seeing him at his purest form now, the love he declares for her at the center of everything he has said and done in the past few days.

Now she is the one who has to fight back tears. She doesn't know this man, not really, but by now she is beginning to believe that she has. Similarly, it's clear to her that there's only one type of love he is referring to. He confirmed her assumption that they were 'together', but it's so much more than just that, whatever that single four letter word might mean exactly for them.

It's because their clasped hands are like an anchor, grounding her to the world, to life itself. Because there are tears in his eyes just like there are in hers and because there is a strange feeling in her chest, right where her heart is.

They were together, they were _in love_ , experienced something so wonderful she could barely have imagined it. But she has known it, with him, and she can't remember.

There's a stirring inside of her, of things that are there but that she can't access, of knowing that she and this man had something very special.

And now that she doesn't have any memories of it, it's almost like it hasn't been there at all.

"I can't remember," she murmurs, the quiet exclamation this time a plea instead of an apology. "I can't recall any of it... of _us_."

"I know," he breathes, sounding as forlorn as before, but not nearly quite as desperate.

He reaches for her face, this time only with some hesitation, and wipes her tears away before they can fall down her cheeks.

He is blinking furiously and she brings her hands to his face in return, experimentally brushing the moisture near his eyes away with her thumb.

They share a watery smile, their hands remaining at the side of one another's faces.

"There are ways... there are solutions. Possibly. I'll do anything in my power to find a way to restore your memories. I swear it, Belle. I won't rest until I have undone this."

Her tears are falling again at his declaration, the devotion and loyalty of a man she can't remember giving her hope of a kind she didn't know existed. At the same time, what he says reminds of the way she unintentionally ruined his earlier attempt to return her memories.

"I broke your cup," she says, gesturing at the shards next to them, not really daring to look at them. "I'm truly sorry. I wish I hadn't done that, even if it weren't for my memories. It's important to you, to _us_ I suppose, and I shouldn't have..."

"It's not your fault, Belle. I should have left you alone. I shouldn't have pushed you and..." He shakes his head, but not looking as upset as she presumed given his earlier reactions. "We've had this conversation before, haven't we?"

"We have," she smiles back at him, glad that they can at least talk like this now - and that she is at least capable of remembering _this_. "But I'd like to say again that it's all right. It really is. I was scared of what you did and because you wouldn't leave at first. But I'm not afraid any more."

The fear he evoked within her before is erased only more at the way he looks at her then, almost as if he is proud to her hear say this.

"The kiss was an attempt as well," he says, his voice softer than ever before and his eyes again not meeting hers. "I deeply regret doing that, Belle. But it worked before and I wanted you to have your memories back so badly... I didn't think of what it would be like for you in case it wouldn't help. I didn't dare to."

There's a turmoil of images and emotions and _feelings_ at his words. It's hardly the first time that she recalls his kiss, far from it, but it's different this time. Now that she has seen another side of him, it's as if her memory of the kiss has expanded, like she's recalling new things about it only now.

Heat rises to her cheeks as she vividly remembers the sensation of his lips being pressed against her, so tender and careful and _loving_ before her shock and the resulting fear overrode that. It makes it difficult to fully process what else he is saying.

"How can a kiss bring back memories?" she asks, before she might give voice to the increasing awareness that, in retrospect, she _really_ doesn't mind all that much that he kissed her. Indeed, in that vague moment between sleep and wakefulness it had felt _nice_ to have her lips touched by his. Very nice.

"It's..." The look he gives her is one of hopelessness. "It won't sound believable to you."

"Try me," she says, hoping that her small smile will persuade him that she's ready to believe so much more than just an hour ago.

"It's magic," he replies, giving her a depreciating gesture of apology, telling her this way that he is aware of how ridiculous he might sound, but that there's nothing he can do about that if he wants to be honest with her. "True Love is the most powerful magic of all. There are few things that can't be achieved with it."

The mere notion of magic, let alone the concept of True Love of all things, should be too bizarre to even consider. But he looks utterly convinced and although she has no idea how exactly a kiss could bring back her memories, there's the same _something_ inside of her as before that recognizes the power and the truthfulness of his words.

"True Love," she breathes, awed and only slightly confused by now. More than anything, she wonders at the implication of those two words. She may have lost such a beautiful thing, but there are ways to bring it back, ways to _remember_. The wonderfulness which they - apparently - have known, albeit briefly, may not be lost forever after all.

And then she's crying again, of hope and joy this time. He must recognize her current lack of sadness and despair, for his expression of horror changes into another one of those watery smiles, his chin trembling ever so slightly.

They move closer together and after a brief, almost happy nod from her, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her against his chest, his embrace firm but ever so careful. It had felt good to hold him, like she did earlier, but the other way around is at least just as pleasant, especially now that her tears and need for nearness are caused by joy rather than fear or sorrow.

The part of her neck which is closest to his face is getting damp once more. She cards her hand through his hair like she learned to do a short while ago as she finds him weeping again as well.

He lets out a sob in reaction, but she too is aware that it's not a sign of distress this time. She simply tightens her hold on him, trying to get as close as she can to receive and give comfort alike... to get as close as possible to _him._


	5. Chapter 5

Her face is pressed against the incredible softness of his dark blue shirt, his scent unlike anything she has consciously experienced before. Much as she'd like it to be otherwise, she can't recall his smell, something subtly and uniquely him, along with what must be wool, woodsmoke and soap of a kind she has never used.

Her arms are locked behind his neck and he runs his hands gently up and down her back, evoking the most lovely sense of safety and comfort that way. Wanting to make him feel the same way, she experimentally mimics his gestures, stroking his back with initially uncertain hands.

She must be doing it right, for he sighs in unmistakable contentment and rests his head on her shoulder. His face is close to the bare skin of her neck and when she continues her movements, he pushes himself lightly against her.

It's strange to have him near her like this, but in a wonderful way. Sensing that she can make it better still, she places her head on his shoulders as well, moving as close to him as she can, in the same way as he is holding her.

She shuts her eyes at the intensity of the subsequent sensations, feeling as if he is everywhere around her, enveloping her. It's like he's shielding her from everything she ever feared in life, while at the same time giving her so much wonderfulness she never had.

Two pairs of hands never ceasing their gentle caresses, he all but slumps against her once more. This time he is overtaken by something entirely different than his earlier despair, but that doesn't make her any less eager to comfort him. She brushes her nose against the side of his neck with a playfulness and familiarity which is completely unjustified, or at least that's what she would have thought an hour ago.

" _Sweetheart_..."

She stills after all, more because of the tone of his voice than the actual term of endearment he uses. He abruptly withdraws from her embrace, all tension which left him when he was in her arms almost visibly catching up with him.

"I'm sorry, Belle. That just slipped out. I shouldn't have..."

"It's all right," she says, and not just because she wants to banish this new pain and regret from him.

"I understand that you aren't comfortable being addressed like that. I'll make sure not to..."

"No, really. It's _all right_ , Rumple." His name is still a strange thing to her, but not because of the - for as far as she can tell - unusual sound of it. But she most definitely is aware of the power it has, both bewildering and calming him whenever she speaks it. "I... I like the way you say it. The way it makes me feel. I can't remember, I know that, but... I enjoy being called like that."

She looks up at him through her lashes, wondering how she has grown so bold to talk like this, to express her thoughts to openly. The answer is right in front of her, warm brown eyes lighting up in reaction to her words, a tentative smile finding its way to his lips.

"And I enjoy calling you that," he says, taking her hand without hesitation and squeezing it lightly. "But the moment it starts making you uncomfortable, this or anything else I might say or do, please promise me that you'll tell me. I'll do all I can then to make an end to it."

"I will," she replies, looking at him in wonder. For as long as she can remember, no one has ever considered what she actually wants or prefers. And it's not as if she actually knew anyone but the nurses who shoved her meals into her cell and forced her to take her medication, women who never talked to her but for the shortest of commands. "I promise."

Just sitting here is a novelty, with no walls to contain her and with someone at her side who she can actually talk to. Being with him is more important than the lack of locked doors. To be treated like her comfort actually matters, to be treated as a human being, _that_ is freedom.

"How often did you call me that?"

She isn't entirely certain whether she can just ask him this, whether it's appropriate to do so given the circumstances, but she can't help but wonder, no doubt as a result of the warmth that is spreading through her now that he has addressed her like this. The two syllables are echoing in her head, filling the emptiness there.

"Why are you asking?" Much to her relief, there's nothing but curiosity in his voice.

"I suppose I'd like to know as much as I can about us. The more you tell me, the more I wish I could remember. It all sounds wonderful and it... it hurts not to know. Or maybe, if you used to say it often... I hope you'll do so again now. I'd love to have that to look forward to."

He smiles a little again, that alone enough to let her know that he'll call her that as often as she'd like him to. But then he looks more grim, like he seems to do much more often than not.

"I didn't say it all that often. Really, we haven't been together for long and when we were..." He glances up at her, as if afraid again that whatever he means to tell her will anger her. She squeezes his hand again, hoping to let him know that way that she won't get upset with him for simply telling the truth. "It wasn't always wonderful. I couldn't always be the man who you wanted me to be. A _good_ man. I knew that, and I tried, but..."

He shakes his head, lowering it, his hair falling before his face like a curtain. Intuitively, she pushes it back with the hand that isn't holding his, momentarily distracted by the lovely softness of the wild strands of his hair.

Honey brown eyes are looking back at her, gentle and so very, very weary.

"I wanted to call you that every single time I talked to you. But I couldn't believe that you really were with me, that you truly wanted to. And each time I said that word to you, it would be the moment you'd realize you'd be much better off without me."

"That's not much of a relationship," she breathes, horrified. She barely knows anything of such things, but this can't be right. How could they have been happy, how could they have been truly in love, if he doubted her feelings for him so very much?

"I suppose not," he rasps, utterly miserable. He withdraws his hand from her, as if he doesn't want to be touching her any longer... as if he is _unworthy_.

"That's not what I meant," she says quickly, his reaction only confirming her suspicion. She struggles to find the right words, anything to understand why he is so very sad despite their apparently previously confirmed love and their current reconciliation of sorts. "Rumple..."

He only shrinks further away from her at the mentioning of his name, but she won't have it. Scooting over to close the growing distance between them, she matter-of-factly takes his hands in her own again, as if drawing him back from whatever reason he's trying to hide from her.

"From what you are telling me... it sounds like we had something beautiful. _Have_. Because I can't remember it, doesn't mean that it isn't real. It isn't just gone now that I can't recall it, or is it?"

"I suppose not," he replies again, this time sounding more hopeful than ashamed.

"Whatever there was between us, it can't have been all that good if you felt like you couldn't be fully open with me, that you couldn't even address me the way you wanted to the most. I can imagine that there were things that you didn't want to discuss with me."

He is very quiet when she talks, just letting her words wash over him despite the obvious discomfort they cause him. It strengthens her growing awareness that the relationship which she seems to have had with this man wasn't as stable as he wanted it to be.

"I've got the feeling that there were a lot of things that we didn't talk about. As if we weren't open and honest with one another. It's... it's not as if _I_ would know, the way I am now, but that doesn't sound pleasant to me. I don't think that's what a relationship should be like."

It's the strangest thing, really, how she gets all these notions and opinions in her head of things she never considered before, things she was never aware of before, just by talking to him. It makes her more convinced that what he is telling her is true, that there has been at least a while in which she hasn't been locked up in the hospital... a time in which she was free and content, perhaps even happy... a time she was with _him_.

She isn't capable of remembering it, but she might one day... or not. But even then, she may not necessarily need her memories to have happiness. Not while he is with her, promising her again and again that he'll do anything in his power to help make her feel better... to let her be unafraid and _happy._

"I would want it to be different," she says quietly, brushing her thumb over his hand. "If we were to be together again, I wouldn't want you to be afraid of calling me exactly what you would like to. I would want both of us to be honest, about everything."

"Sweetheart, I..."

There still is a sense that she has no right to do this, that he isn't _hers_ , when she lets go off one of his hands in order to brush the tears away which are welling in his eyes again. But the ease with which she soothes him in a way she hadn't thought herself capable of no longer confuses her. She simply focuses all her attention on cupping his cheeks in her palms instead of wondering whether she should actually be doing this.

"I barely know about the past and I don't know about the future. I don't know about _us_. Perhaps I never will, not like it seems that I used to. But we can try to make the best of it, can't we? To find a way, a _good_ way, together?"

He nods weakly, eyes wet and bright, and her heart surges at seeing him like this, so much at odds with the broken shell of a man he was before.

But he isn't the only one who is flourishing beneath her very gaze. Talking with him like this has hope blossoming inside of her, an ever growing sense that there is a point to her life after all, that she has something beautiful to live for.

"I think I'd like that," she breathes, savoring her touch of him. Not only because he has become her anchor, something to hold on to in a world which is confusing and scary, but also because she has found that she _likes_ touching him.

There's the ever present doubt, a fear that she can't live up to his expectations, that she's not truly whom he wants - whom he _needs_. But there's an optimism when he cups her hand which is holding this, grounding her further. There's hope in the way he holds her gaze and never lets go, looking at _her_ instead of the woman she's supposed to be.

Her courage growing each minute she spends with him, she strokes her fingers along his cheeks without any hesitation whatsoever. She mirrors the soft noise of appreciation she evokes from him with the tender and still inexperienced touch, the combination of the roughness of his stubble and the softness of his skin making her feel in a way she has never done before.

He leans into her hand, seeking more of her touch, and she is more than happy to oblige. Her other goes to his hair, her curious fingers carefully carding through it, and there's a part of her of which she was never aware of before, a part which trembles in something very much unlike fear, when his eyes close and the volume of the noises which are coming from him increase.

She is unaware that she moves closer to him, her gaze intent on his face. It's intriguing, _beautiful_ , so much more so now that there isn't a sign of anger or fear, when the worry and pain is replaced by hope and tentative joy.

It's a strange thing to know that she alone has caused these changes within him, but there's no denying them as he actually smiles a little when she whispers his name. The awe and affection in her voice when she does so should be stranger still, but knowing what she does now, it's almost natural to be with him like this, to enjoy his nearness like he so obviously cherishes hers.

Cradling his face, she marvels at the delight of experiencing something like this with another human being, at sharing this sort of connection.

And just like that, their current nearness isn't enough anymore.

She slowly closes the distance between them, her apparent hesitance caused by anticipation rather than reluctance or nerves. For the same reason she lingers briefly when she is right in front of him, savoring his uneven breathing and wide eyes.

"I'd really like us to find a way together," she whispers into the few inches of air between them, as if she can make her wish come true that way.

She has no idea whatsoever of the _how_ of this, but that too doesn't appear to matter all that much when she intuitively – again, almost familiarly - brushes her lips against his forehead, the gesture one of gratitude and affection.

He _shudders_ at the contact, taking away any last doubts she may have had on the effects she has on him. Wanting to take away _his_ doubts as well, she remains right where she is for several delightful seconds, her eyes closed in enjoyment of his nearness.

When she withdraws, she settles herself next to him, her head on his shoulder and her hands in his, smiling broadly.

No matter when she'll regain her memories, no matter if she'll do so at all, she has found happiness now that she has him, and she's going to hang on to both of them for all she is worth.


	6. Chapter 6

Sitting closely next to the man who has become the center of her life in such a short time, it's tempting to just stay like that, comfortable and content. Especially when he moves a careful arm around her, only resting it ever so lightly on her waist as she smiles and nods, she wishes that she could just enjoy this nearness.

But there are things she wants to ask him, a great many of them. He has told her a lot, but there's so much more she needs to know in order to find more than a fleeting peace of mind, to _understand._ The list with questions in her head grows only longer the more she thinks of it.

There is a single question that stands out though, the one that has been bothering her the most ever since she found herself at the town line, having no idea whatsoever who she actually is.

This never seemed to matter all that much when she was still locked up in the basement, if only because she was convinced that there would never be any need for her to have an identity.

It didn't matter back then that she was confused and _blank_ , not even knowing her own name. But now she is here, with him, hearing of a woman who has enchanted him so completely.

She isn't sure whether she can be that woman, apparently the very woman who she is supposed to be, whatever that means exactly. Either way, she really wants to try, more than she ever wanted anything throughout the years. But in order to do that, she'll have to learn more of the person of whom he speaks with such longing and affection.

"Can you tell me about her?" she asks, awfully aware that she's asking about _herself,_ as if she is a different person altogether. "About what she's like?"

"It's probably better if I don't tell you about her... about _you._ I'd like you to be who you are, right now, not trying to be who you think you should be."

"Do you?" she urges quietly, very much aware of his reluctant tone. Besides, the memory of him doing just about anything to make her remember is one that hasn't escaped her.

"Yes," he replies after a few seconds, sounding entirely sincere. "You lost your memories and there's nothing we can do about that now. Those memories are part of what make you _you._ They can't be replaced; they have to be regained."

His speech falters for a moment, but he continues after taking an audible breath of air.

"Besides, you should be who you are, not who I want you to be. I have to admit that those aren't necessarily the same."

"I... I appreciate that," she says, thoughtful of both his actual words and the fact that they differ so much from what he did before this evening. "But isn't there anything you can tell me? Some facts? I know _nothing_ , Rumple, and..."

She shakes her head in frustration, struggling to find the words, anything, which might explain to him what it does to her, not knowing even the most basic of things about herself.

"I think it's better if you don't hear about yourself from me."

"Why is that?" she asks, noting that his earlier reluctance has returned.

"Our relationship is... controversial. Many don't believe that you truly want to be with me... they say that I'm forcing or manipulating you, one way or another. I can't truly blame them for that. _I_ don't understand why you kept coming back to me. Given my own involvement, I should be the last person to influence your perception of our relationship now that you can't remember whatever it was that persuaded you not to leave me like everyone thought you should."

She nods slowly in partial agreement. She understands his reasoning and appreciates his caution. Then again, _he_ is the one who has been supporting her, much unlike the 'many' who apparently condemn their relationship.

"I'd really like to hear it from _you_. Not everything, just... just some things, the same that anyone else might tell me. You're the only one I trust. Not because of what you told me about us being together, but because you were the only one who helped me or even came to see me in the past few days."

"Oh, Belle..."

He's reaching for her again, eyes full of hope and awe and wonder, and she can imagine that it's hardly the first time that he looks at her like this, as if he can't believe that this is real. Her eyes flutter closed in enjoyment when he brushes his knuckles against her cheek, a gesture that too is almost familiar.

"We met in a different land... a different world."

She forces herself to open her eyes when he begins to talk, not wanting to miss anything now that he has started to tell her about their past after all. New questions are already erupting in her mind, both about the characteristics of this 'different world' and how something like that can exist in the first place. But she remains quiet, for now, and just listens now that he is talking after all.

"There was a war. Your father was losing. He requested me to defeat the ogres that his army was fighting. I accepted, but I demanded a price. I always did... and I still do. There was very little he had to offer. But there was a young woman with him that night, as part of his war council... a courageous and intelligent woman, and beautiful too."

He doesn't cease to touch her during his tale, which is lovely despite making it slightly difficult to actually focus on what he is saying.

"You were the only one who wasn't afraid of me. Not just there, but anywhere in the realm. I would never have admit it back then, but I was a lonely man, living at a large castle without any company. No one would voluntarily stay there with me... or so I thought before meeting you. I demanded you to come live with me, as caretaker of my estate, in return for the safety of your village. Your father and fiancé forbade it... but you came with me anyway."

She is hardly aware that she's on the edge of her seat in her eagerness not to miss a word of what he says. From the moment he started talking, it's clear to her that the 'woman' he is referring to is her, whether he is aware that he changes from describing her in third to second person or not.

"On your very first day, you dropped the cup in which you were going to serve me my tea," he continues, her eyes widening in realization. He hesitates, doubtlessly knowing as well as she does that he tried to tell her this before, to very unpleasant results. Only after another small smile from her, he goes on. "It didn't break when it fell, but it was chipped. You thoroughly apologized, but it was as if you were more concerned because of the cup itself than for my reaction. And that's when I was beginning to find out..."

He shakes his head, his gaze distant, lost in a memory only he can cherish, for now at least. She looks at the shards next to her, her guilt for destroying the cup increasing much more rapidly than it already had.

"We didn't spend all that much time together at first. We were both mostly at work, in different parts of the castle. I wasn't sure how to... well, how to talk to you. You never reacted the way I thought you would. You confused me, I suppose. But after a while you insisted on having tea with me, saying I was going to have to talk to you if I didn't want to end up with a housekeeper who forgot how to talk in the first place. It became a lot easier after that. It turned out that talking to you wasn't difficult at all. It was like you... understood."

His narration doesn't trigger any memories, but it makes it easy for her to imagine these events of her past – _their_ past – in her mind's eye.

"I was falling in love with you," he adds, taking a deep breath and looking almost apologetic. "But I was certain that you could never feel the same way about me. You were kind and lovely, but... I am a monster, and I never forget that."

She opens her mouth to object. She may barely know him at this point and he might have done horrible things, but there is a side of him that couldn't be further from what he is currently describing. But she doesn't interrupt him this time either, wanting him to continue talking now that he has opened up like this.

"I let you go. I expected I would never see you again... but you returned. And you... you _kissed_ me."

Everything about him betrays that he can't believe this even now. Her heart aches at seeing him like this, so completely incapable of believing that she would willingly kiss him... and _she_ was the one who was repulsed by the very notion until only a short while ago.

"It was perfect. And I ruined it," he whispers, his regret almost tangible. "Your kiss began to break my curse. I thought that you had done it on purpose, to take my powers away from me. I was convinced that you were working with Regina."

He spits out the woman's name with such hatred that she momentarily forgets about the curse he is referring to.

"Who is Regina?" she asks, not wanting to interrupt him but beginning to understand less and less of what he's saying.

"The Evil Queen," he replies. "It's a long story."

A single quirked eyebrow tells him that this isn't an acceptable answer for her.

"My role in it is something I'm not proud of," he says slowly, resigned. "but I saw it as a necessary measure at the time. These days... I prefer not to think of it. Regina and I have a long history. She was my apprentice before she..."

He sighs deeply, his shoulders sagging, but continues talking.

"I... I used her. I manipulated her to cast the curse that brought us here. It worked, but I lost control over her long before that. She tried to defeat me, to become more powerful than me. The only way she could do so was by taking my powers from me."

His explanation adds yet more questions she wants answered. She attempts to memorize each and every single one that pops into her head, not deterred by the apparent impossibility of it.

"True Love's kiss was a way to make an end to my powers. Regina must have known that. I thought you were cooperating with her and that you used our feelings for her purposes. I was... upset."

Judging from the way the volume of his voice lowers yet more, the last word barely audible, 'upset' is an understatement. It doesn't help that he can no longer look at her, focusing on the floor at her feet instead.

"I threw you out. You pleaded for me to let you stay and to open up to you. But I couldn't, not when thinking that it was all a trick. Despite the evidence of our feelings, I was convinced that you didn't really love me. You left, eventually."

His voice is hoarse, shaking, the memory of these events still visibly hurting him.

"No news of you reached me for a few weeks and I didn't go looking for it. I had no reason to presume that you had done anything other than returning either to your father or to Regina. But then _she_ came by one afternoon and she told me..."

It's as if telling her this is physically hurting him. He is trembling and she doesn't dare imagining how horrible those events must have been for him.

She makes gratefully use of the experience she has developed in consoling him. She shifts closer to him and gently guides him towards her as well, until his head is resting on her shoulder again and her arms are on his back, rubbing him gently.

"She told me you died," he says, struggling to keep his words intelligible as he whispers them against the side of her neck. "She told me that you had gone home and that your father shunned you, that he locked you up and attempted to have you... _cleansed_ because you had lived with me. You were treated violently and cruelly... or at least, that's what Regina said, and that you... leapt from the tower... she said that you _died_."

She pulls him closer to her, muttering words that'll hopefully bring him some solace. Just hearing this makes her shiver, both the story he tells her and the way he reacts to it so very painful. She can't imagine what it must be like for him, to remember it directly.

"I don't know what truly happened to you. I never made sure that she hadn't lied. I _should_ have, but I... Thinking that you were gone, it hurt so much. And it was all my fault. If I hadn't thrown you out, if I would have treated you properly and not let get my anger and suspicion the better of me... I never forgot about you. There was no hour that went by in which I didn't wish at least once that you were still with me."

She rocks him gently, relieved when he relaxes a little. She doesn't know what to say to him so she doesn't say anything, by now quite certain that there are very few more calming things to him than the way she is holding him now.

"Regina cast the curse eventually. We ended up here. And one day, many years later, you walked into my shop. A former... associate of Regina freed you from here, but your memories were gone. At first, you didn't remember anything of your life in our home world."

"I lost my memories before?" she asks, interrupting him despite her eagerness to hear as much of her own history as she can, his retelling of her past much more detailed than she thought it would be.

He says so many things that she doesn't fully understand, places and people she can't imagine let alone remember, but this part of his tale resembles her current life so closely that she can't help but interrupt him immediately.

"You did," he says, sighing deeply. "Regina took them from you. They were restored eventually."

"By True Love's kiss?" she asks, eyes lighting up because she knows this now. "Or the teacup?"

"It wasn't like that," he replies, sounding so very, very old. "It's... it's complicated. And a long story. Very long. I'd love to tell you one day, but this isn't the right moment. It had nothing to do with that. Regina's curse was broken, that's how you got your memories back."

"What happened then?" she asks, her mind spinning more than it has done at any moment in the past few days, but in a way that's for once not entirely unpleasant.

"You moved in with me," he replies, still clinging to her. "That's when we were together, for a few weeks. But we argued, we quarreled. You were right about everything, about my dependence on magic... dark magic. But I couldn't give it up. That's why you left."

There are so many things she wants to say to that and there are yet more questions that his narration raises. But she remains quiet this time, aware of how difficult it is for him to tell her this, and that she might have only a single chance to hear this from him.

If there's something she has learned in the past years, it's patience. Besides, she can do something now that's so much better than simply waiting for anything to happen, for her apparent life story to be told to her.

Already having found more than she could have dreamed of, she simply tightens her hold on the man in her arms, quietly awaiting the moment he'll be ready to continue their tale.


	7. Chapter 7

It's quite some time until he continues talking. Much as she dislikes seeing him overcome by the emotions that recalling their past life cause, she's also grateful for the brief respite. It gives her the chance to consider what he has told her so far, to fully realize that she apparently left him, despite the love between them.

"I let you go. I could barely do it, but I knew I had to. For once, I did all I could to do the right thing. I still don't know how you could forgive me, but you did. You remained living at your new home, but we went to see each other several times a week to share meals, or just to talk or be together. We were interrupted more often than not, but we grew closer. We talked, really talked, probably for the first time in this world... or ever. I think we would have gotten back together eventually, if it weren't for..."

He makes a sound closely resembling a growl, but she isn't frightened, knowing that it's not directed at her and by now very much aware that he would never do anything to harm her.

"What happened?" she asks softly, bringing one hand up to stroke his hair again, sensing that the soothing gesture is more than welcome.

"I had to leave town. Although we both wished that you could come with me, it wasn't possible for you to join me. We said our goodbyes at the town line. I had to leave you there, but... You were magnificent, Belle. You said that you would wait for me. I was beginning to think that it would all end well after all. But Hook had found us. You were about to... to kiss me when he..."

He tightens his grasp on her, as if afraid that he'll lose her right there and then if he doesn't do so, his grasp becoming painful. She squeezes his hand and whispers his name to let him know, smiling against the crown of his head when he mutters an apology and loosens his hold on her immediately.

The mentioning of the person named Hook causes yet more questions, and so does his plan to leave town, but at least she doesn't have to ask to find out what happened when they were found by Hook, whoever he is. There isn't much that she remembers, but the pain and confusion, the _terror,_ is hard to forget.

"So that's how it happened," she mutters, more to herself than to him. She intuitively reaches for her shoulder, for a second almost still feeling her flesh burn.

"Hook shot you. The wound wasn't mortal and I healed it shortly afterwards, but the impact knocked you over the town line. That caused you to lose your memories. There wasn't anything I could do about it."

"So Regina is behind all this," she muses, "Regina and this Hook you mentioned."

"I have many enemies," he says, apologetic. "I presumed they weren't stupid enough to go after you. It's a mistake I'll never make again."

Much as she'd like to think that she wouldn't want him to get anywhere near the darkness she can sense within him, she can't help but appreciate that he'll use his power to look after her, to protect her. The woman she once was - the woman who she ought to be - would disapprove, judging of what he has told her so far, but the woman who she has become can't help but want the safety he can in all likelihood provide.

"What does Regina look like?"

Everything he has told her is swirling through her mind at a dizzying speed, connections being made slowly but surely. Regina was the one who held her in the basement; he hasn't explicitly told her, but she can read between the lines. Besides, except for the nurses, the only other person who she has ever seen there was the one to came to gloat _,_ the one with the cruel face and...

"She has black hair, dark eyes, pale skin, blood red lips..."

She gasps at hearing the exact description of the woman who found such twisted joy in her misery.

"What is it, sweetheart? Have you seen her? Did she come to you?"

"She did," she manages, the fear and the panic and the helplessness returning to her all at once. "She looked through the little window of my door sometimes, when I was still in the basement. She never talked or did anything, she just stood there and... watched. She terrified me."

Now she is the one clinging to him instead of the other way around, and his strong yet tender embrace is just as unconditional as the one she just gave him.

"I'm so sorry, Belle. I should have known. I should have _done_ something. But you're safe from her now. Something like that will never happen again, sweetheart. I promise. Never again."

She finds calmness and security of a kind she didn't know existed when he just holds her, caressing her hair ever so tenderly and whispering words of reassurance in her ear.

They remain sitting like that for a long time. She savors his nearness and the contentedness that comes with it, wishing that they could be like this forever, just sitting together and holding one another.

But he breaks away eventually, breathing in deeply one final time before doing so, regret written clearly on his face.

She shivers when they are no longer in each other's embrace. This time, it has nothing to do with fear or discomfort. The slightly increased distance is enough to leave her feeling chilly and bereft.

"You must be cold," he says, looking carefully at her.

It's the first time that he focuses his gaze on a part of her other than her face and she feels awfully self-conscious when he takes in the hospital gown she is still wearing. She is wearing little else and the worn gown doesn't do much to cover her limbs.

His distress tells her exactly just what he thinks of her lack of proper clothes, but if his only half intelligible mutterings about 'incompetent staff' are any indication, he doesn't think any less of her due to her current attire.

She vaguely recalls the clothes she was wearing when she was brought in, almost each item torn and dirty but still so very, very pretty. They were unlike anything she has seen before, let alone worn. She imagines that he really likes these clothes on her, given their snug cut and the flawlessness of the material he wears himself.

The loathing in his eyes is not caused by the way she is dressed now, only by the people who made her do so, who took her own clothes away from her. As suddenly as inexplicable, she has the feeling that he doesn't care what she wears, just as long she is free to chose the clothing herself.

"Are you?"

It takes her a moment to recall that he asked her a question and that she hasn't answered it yet. Despite her slight embarrassment for being lost in thought just when someone is trying to help her for the very first time, she doesn't need much considering to be able to answer him.

"Yes, I'm cold," she simply replies. She may not have been so before, but she is definitely quivering now that his nearness no longer holds the chilly air back from her bare limbs and pure adrenaline isn't flooding her any longer.

In response, he shrugs off the heavy overcoat he is wearing and drapes it around her before she can object.

"You need it more than I do," he says, as if aware that she means to tell him that she can't possibly accept this.

"Thank you," she says, hoping that it's clear to him that way just how grateful she is for his generous gesture. With the heavy yet wonderfully soft fabric around her, she feels a lot warmer immediately - although that may also be due to the fact that he cares enough for her to do this.

"It's no matter. You can keep it for as long as you like."

He withdraws his hands from her as soon as he has placed the coat around her shoulders. It's as if he is afraid that she objects to his accidental touch, not even having brushed his fingers against her when covering her with the lovely material.

Really, who is this man who can be dangerous at one moment and so very meek at another, who can go from being completely self-assured to so very, very uncertain in a matter of seconds?

"Well then," he says, all business-like as he takes his distance from her, abruptly standing up with a speed that surprises her, given the cane she hasn't seen him without so far. "Is there something I can do for you at this moment? I've talked to Dr. Whale; he said you have to stay for one more day for observation, but after that you can go. I'll arrange everything for you when the time comes, anything you want. But is there anything I can do for you right now?"

Her head is spinning with the sudden change within him, much more so than because of what he is actually asking her. He held on to her as if he never wanted to let go of her again just a few minutes ago, but now he looks as if he wants to get away from her as quickly as he can.

She regards him closely, once more wishing that she could remember him - if only because that might make it somewhat easier to interpret the myriad of emotions on his face.

Longing still written on his face, it dawns on her that he indeed intends to leave, but not because he wants to. Even now, he fears that his presence might unnerve her, or at least that it will start to do so if he stays with her for too long. After her subconscious behavior during the past few days, she isn't surprised by that. If only she would have known...

But she does now.

It's ironic, really. Since the moment she was brought back to the hospital, she wished for someone to properly explain to her what is going on, for not being locked up again and for having someone to simply talk to... a _friend_.

One way or another, she has achieved these three things now, all thanks to him. And yet, now that she has had a taste of what she supposes what normalcy must be like, of friendship, she doesn't want to let go. Quite the opposite, she wants to hold on to it for as long as she can... wants to hold on to _him_.

"Stay?"

She doesn't know how to go about these things, how to request someone to talk to you and remain at your side for just a while longer.

But it appears that her request suffices for at least some extent. He lingers, not stepping away from her like he originally must have intended.

"I don't want you to go," she mutters, figuring that honestly telling him what she thinks is the best way to communicate with him. "Can we just sit here for a while longer? To talk? It's... nice to have you near."

For a long time she was certain that there would never be anything in her life which might be characterized as 'nice'. But just the way his eyes lighten at her request is very pleasant indeed.

Still, there is a wariness to him. After the things he just told her of their relationship, she isn't surprised by this either.

"I know what you told me," she says quickly, attempting to take away his obvious worries. "If anything happens that makes me uncomfortable, I'll tell you, especially when you cause it. But you aren't scaring me anymore. I think I'll be uncomfortable if you _go_."

"I'd be very happy to stay with you for now," he admits, before carefully lowering himself back onto the seat he just vacated. Smiling tentatively, he sits down just an inch closer to her than he was before.

Just seeing him like this is a joy. It's miraculous how much his face changes on the few occasions that he smiles. He looks much less severe and tired, and not just from a lack of sleep. He seems younger, too, but what she likes the most is that he looks so very gentle, so much unlike the man who had fire burning in the palm of his hand and who terrified her just by being near her.

She pulls her bare feet onto the seat and covers them with the edges of the coat he gave her, delighting in the sensation of the soft fabric against her skin. Soon, she is warmer than she has ever been before, for as far as she can remember at least. Much more than the coat itself, it's his continued nearness which brings warmth to her heart and body alike.


	8. Chapter 8

Sitting there in the hallway, with her supposed True Love at her side and his coat comfortably around her, she feels safe and protected. Despite all the new sides and layers she has seen of him this evening, she doesn't forget for a second that this is the very man who inadvertently scared her more than anything else in her life just a few days ago. There is no denying that there is something about him that should be too impossible to be true, if it weren't for the fact that she witnessed it herself.

It is so very tempting to ignore it, to savor this unknown closeness and warmth for as long as he is willing to give it. But she can't truly relax without having an explanation for the fireball in his hand and the blue haze that healed her.

"Is there something you want to talk about?" he asks quietly, almost as if he is afraid for what she might say. She doesn't know whether he already expected her unease or that he knows her so well that he can simply see that something is bothering her. Both possibilities are more appealing than they have any right to be.

"When we were on the road, in the forest, when you healed me..." she starts, figuring that it is better not to mention the fire which burned in his palm without hurting him and the look of pure hatred and anger on his face. The same goes for his rant about magic earlier that day, when he presented the cup to her as if it would miraculously fix her memory problems.

"What about it?" he asks, his expression and his posture as neutral as they can be. By now, she is quite sure that it's all a mask, a means to conceal his true emotions in order not to terrify her again.

"Can you truly do magic?" she blurts out, unable to keep from asking him about that what has been bothering her so much on top of everything else, as she finds nothing but gentle patience in his eyes.

"I can," he simply says. The statement would be utterly ridiculous coming from anyone else, but his steady gaze alone would have been enough to persuade her, even if she wouldn't have seen his acts of magic with her own eyes. "Would you like me to show you? Just a small example? To prove it?"

After years and years of complete isolation, she would welcome just about any distraction to break the bleak emptiness of her existence. But to watch _him_ do anything like what she saw in the forest through a daze of fear and pain... in all likelihood, it would be spectacular indeed.

More than that, she longs to get to get to know him better, to learn more of him. If magic is part of him, she wishes to understand it as much as she can.

Still, she doesn't allow herself to give in immediately to her probably misguided excitement. He can be threatening, even without mysterious fire in his hand. She doesn't dare think of all other things he might as well be capable of.

"It's not dangerous or harmful, is it?" she asks, not entirely managing to conceal her eagerness.

"There are many kinds of magic. The one I practice... it's dark. That's mostly due to its source, although there were many, many years that my own intent..."

He looks at her, shaking his head. It clearly troubles him to tell her this.

"I acquired these powers against my will, but they have become essential to me. My dependency on magic is stronger than myself, sometimes. Well, most of the time. You were helping me to change that."

The fact that he is actually telling her this, leaves her to think that she tried to change more than that alone. She only has to see the pained look on his face to know that those challenges weren't going all that well.

"Still," he says, relaxing a little, "I can use my magic for many purposes, not all of them unpleasant ones. I can show you, if you wish."

"Yes, please. But just something small, and not unpleasant."

Although there was an implicit warning in his earlier words, her curiosity is only fueled more. She just hopes that the conditions she gave will prevent anything bad from happening.

"Please behold," he says, smiling again, as if he is very much delighted by the prospect of doing this for her.

She watches him intently, her mouth actually falling open when a cloud of something like purple mist appears at a snap of his fingers. When it clears, he is holding a single red rose in his hand.

"How did you..."

Despite the obvious answer, this question is the one that most significantly springs to mind at the sight of this seemingly impossible display. Of all the things she might have expected, this wasn't one of them. To actually conjure something out of thin air, a _rose_ of all things...

And not just a rose. It's a blood-red rose of the type of which she somehow knows that it symbolizes romantic love.

"Here, if you'll have it..."

She hesitates for only a second before taking it, the look of sheer gratitude on his face more wonderful, more magical, than the flower which he made appear out of nowhere.

"Why, thank you."

She giggles a little, the sound just welling up from deep inside of her, sounding unfamiliar to her own ears. It might as well have been the first time that she ever laughed and she savors the utter joy of it.

"I'll gladly have it," she murmurs, wanting to make that as clear to him as she can when a flash of something bittersweet crosses his face for the briefest moments. It's almost as if her words remind him of something both beautiful and painful, something that she doesn't understand and can't do anything about.

"Any time. I mean it, Belle. Whenever there is something you need or want, anything at all... just come to me. I'll take care of it."

"Thank you," she breathes, not sure how to react to this. She can't think of any words that might express just how grateful she is to him, how delighted she is by his extremely generous offer. "I... I don't think I can thank you enough."

"You don't need to," he says, his voice just as soft as hers.

Her shoulders sag a little at the expression on his face. He truly expects nothing in return for his efforts, as if it would be fine with him to provide for anything she could possibly need even if he were to rarely see her again.

"There's one thing though," she says, his earlier words echoing through her head. He seems to be under the impression that she intends to leave him, despite their love, and that just won't do.

"What is it, sweetheart? Name it, and I'll take care of it."

His eyes are burning with purpose and she has to clear the sudden lump from her throat in order to be able to continue talking audibly. After remembering nothing but loneliness and fear, it's incredible to have this man at her side, vowing to do whatever he can to help her. And yet, it isn't as good as it should be, not when he has so very little faith in their relationship.

"You said that I should come to you whenever I need something."

"I did, yes," he says, looking at her nervously. Whatever he expected her to say, this clearly wasn't it.

"I really appreciate that offer," she quickly says, wanting to make an end to his uncertainty. "It's just that... Rumple, I can't really _come_ to you when I'm already with you, or can I?"

His eyes widen in realization. She holds her breath when she sees the change come over him which her remark caused.

"You don't have to say that, Belle. The offer stands no matter what."

"Do you really think I would say that if I didn't mean it?"

It's a bit of a risk, but there's a strong urge to be nothing but honest with this incredible man. She has the feeling that it's similar for the woman he remembers.

"No, sweetheart, I don't think that. But..."

She can't help but smile again, aware that her assumption was completely right.

"No 'buts'," she says, reaching to take his hand again to reassure him. She has discovered that those little touches can calm him down or persuade him much more easily and completely than any of the words she has found so far. It's almost as surprising as finding herself so bold to talk to him like this in the first place, almost berating a man who is so much more powerful than her.

He takes her lower arm in his hands, his quite abrupt touch belied by his trembling fingers. To her confusion, he brings her hand to his mouth, his lips hovering just above her skin.

"Can I..."

She doesn't know what he is referring to at first. But then his warm breath is ghosting over her skin and he nervously licks his lip, and she has a fairly good idea.

" _Yes_ ," she breathes, realizing then that it's not true that he is more powerful than her. He might be able to do the most impossible of things, and others might fear him, but there's something about her that doesn't make her one of them. She doesn't know how or why, but there's something about her that has him granting her every wish, as if she is the one who can do magic and holds so much power.

That's the last rational thought she has for quite some time. For when his lips brush against her knuckles, there is nothing she can do but surrender to the unfamiliar and overwhelming sensations of his mouth against her skin.

She brings the rose to safety while she's still somewhat capable of doing so, placing it carefully atop the shards of the cup before fully dividing all of her attention to him.

He cradles her hand between his own, reverently kissing every inch of the top of it. She has no point of reference for this but even if she would have had, she wouldn't have had much use for it. Especially when he makes a soft sound of appreciation, telling her that he too finds joy in this kind of touch, she simply lets her eyes flutter closed to fully enjoy whatever it is exactly that he is doing for her.

For this alone she would happily stay with him, for the feeling of his lips running along the back of her hand, peppering light kisses against every part of it. Not to mention when he opens his mouth slightly and starts using his tongue as well, drawing non-existing patterns anywhere he can reach.

She is making noises now too, sounds of a kind she didn't think herself capable of. It doesn't bother her in the slightest that he makes her feel completely out of her depth this way. She happily welcomes the sensation of getting utterly lost; with him touching her like this, she doesn't ever want to be found.

He withdraws and turns her hand around, causing her to make a sound of objection. But before the absence of his touch fully registers, his lips move to the inside of her wrists.

She gasps when he latches onto something, a vein perhaps, and warmth of a kind she never knew before rushes through her.

He is suckling on her skin there, grazing his teeth against it ever so lightly. Although she can't imagine how it can possibly feel so wonderful, it most definitely does.

Opening her eyes slightly, if only to reassure herself that this is truly happening, she finds him bending over her. His eyes are shut tightly as he touches her, almost as if worshiping her, fully dedicating himself to making her feel cherished and whole.

She may barely know him, but especially now it isn't difficult at all to imagine herself being with this man, living with him... _loving_ him.

She isn't quite sure how she can let him know that she likes being touched like this so very much, but to her it's essential that she finds a way. Not just because she only wants him to stop if she's sure that he'll start again at a later point in time, but also because he's still awfully tense. It's as if he isn't entirely convinced of both her willingness to be touched like this and that realness of this situation, as if he might perceive this as merely another one of the fantasies which he may have cherished when the two of them were separated.

Hoping that it'll suffice because she doesn't have any other idea how to go about this, she reaches for his hair with her free hand, twining her fingers into it. Experimentally, she caresses both his silky tresses and his scalp. The sound coming from somewhere deep inside his chest convinces her that her plan is working. It's another one of those sounds that she simply doesn't want to live without from now on.

He rubs nose and lips alike against her skin, using his teeth and tongue too every once in a while. He breathes in deeply, as if bewitched by the smell of her skin and wanting to memorize it just in case he'll never get close to it again. She can imagine that only too well.

She shifts a little until she can bend forward, enveloping him in a slightly uncomfortable embrace. Only then he completely relaxes once more. She smiles against his hair, equally glad that she is as close to him now as she can be.

Stroking his back, she is once more taken aback by how nice he smells. For too long all she has known is the disinfectant scent of her cell and the smell of her own despair. There have been other things since she has been in the much nicer hospital room and dared wandering to the end of the corridor a few times, but nothing is nearly as remarkable as the subtle smokiness which she can inhale every time she gets near him.

This time she doesn't get to enjoy it for long either, because he abruptly moves away from her after a few moments. He guides her arm back in her lap and when she glances down at it in surprise, she can see some moisture as a result of the lovely things he just did. She wouldn't know whether such a thing is normal or not, but it doesn't matter in the slightest. It feels _right_ and that's so much more than she can ask for after having lived for so long without feeling anything pleasant at all.

She raises a confused eyebrow at him, not understanding why he stopped, let alone so suddenly. She may not know anything about these things, but it seemed to her that it was going rather well, whatever it was exactly that he was doing.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I got... carried away."

The hint of redness on his cheeks tells her that he's _blushing_ and heat rushes to her face as well upon realizing that he's influenced by this just as much as she is.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," she whispers, shy and emboldened at once.

His blush deepens and so does hers upon openly acknowledging that she enjoys the effect he has on her. He appears to know almost as little on how to go about such things as she does, but this too doesn't matter to her. Unconventional or not, this is definitely the start of something between them... and for as far as she's concerned, it's a very good one.


	9. Chapter 9

Not quite knowing what to do or say now that their faces are equally flushed and they don't seem to be capable to look away from one another, she runs a hand through her hair. It's a reflex which she doesn't understand, but there's a vague notion that the gesture is supposed to bring a resemblance of control.

It turns out to do anything but. She winces in dissatisfaction at the feeling of her far from cleanly washed strands of hair between her fingers.

"What is it?" he asks, somehow immediately aware of her discomfort once more. The color drains quickly from his face, any sign of uneasiness from her apparently enough to shock him like this.

"It's nothing, really."

Indeed, compared to anything else, the state of her hair hardly matters.

"It's not nothing if it bothers you, dear."

There is an invitation in his words, but nothing more than that.

"I haven't really had the chance yet to..."

She gestures helplessly at her hair, feeling silly as she does so. It's not as if she actually cares about her own neatness one way or another. Then again, that's not strictly speaking true any longer, not now that there is someone who might actually appreciate the way she looks.

"I don't even know how I usually wear it," she mutters, frustration coming back to her as quickly as he banished it.

"I do," he mutters, making the almost angry bitterness disappear once more.

"You do, don't you?"

The notion that he knows this about her - and so much more - might have scared her before, but now there's nothing but gratefulness from her side.

"Yes. I... I could show you, if you'd like?"

"I would like that, yes."

He gives her another one of those hopeful smiles when he scoots slightly closer to her, bringing his hands towards her face. He only actually reaches for her hair when she gives him a nod of encouragement.

She wonders if there'll ever come an end to his thoughtfulness, his tenderness, but that thought vanishes for the time being when he purposefully moves his fingers through her hair.

It's still so very new to her, being touched, especially when the person doing so has no intention of harming her.

He rearranges her locks a little, but not all that much, his touches as careful and reverent as they have been all night.

"In this world, you usually wear your hair like this," he says after a very pleasant minute or so, to her regret already withdrawing his hands. "Would you like to see?"

She nods again. He raises one eyebrow suggestively in response.

"How would you show me?" she asks, sensing that his answer is going to include magic, but having no idea how.

"There's a mirror in my house. It was yours, in the world where we are from. It made its way to this one. I kept it for you and gave it back to you once I had the chance. I'd like to do so again."

She nods once more, aware of the unspoken question. The purple smoke which appears out of nowhere is just as fascinating as the first time she witnessed it, but not nearly as intimidating and simply _strange_.

He hands her the mirror which has appeared in his palm and she gasps in delight when she takes the reflective glass from him.

"It's _gorgeous_ ," she gushes, admiring the exquisite woodwork surrounding the bright glass with eager eyes and curious fingers.

"It delights me that you still like it."

Again, there isn't the slightest spark of a memory that ignites when she caresses an object which once must have been very dear to her, but it doesn't matter all that much in that moment.

"How did I get it?"

She already knows the answer when she looks back at him in anticipation of his reply.

"It was a gift for you from me, when you were the caretaker of my castle. You... beyond exceeded at that task. You kept doing things I did not expect. Kind things, wonderful things. I didn't think there was anything that I could do for you in order to return the favor of the deliciously cookies you made me or your truly excellent baked potatoes, but I tried."

"It's _beautiful_."

"Only as beautiful as the person whose image it reflects," he murmurs, looking expectantly at her.

Reminded then that there is a reason that he conjured the mirror for her in the first place, she lifts it up in front of her and studies the reflection in the glass.

She doesn't look at her face, the large and practical mirror in the bathroom already having shown her that her skin is too pale, her cheeks gaunt and that there are dark marks beneath her eyes.

It's undeniable that her hair is no longer a riot of untamed locks. It's also indisputable that this too doesn't bring back a single memory... and that her hair is greasier than she feared it would be.

"What's wrong?"

It's uncanny, really, how he is aware of her distress immediately each and every single time. Uncanny, and admittedly comforting.

"It's my hair," she says, knowing from experience by now that she won't get away without revealing the whole truth to him. "It's... it's quite disgusting, I'm afraid."

For the first time, he looks at her as if she has gone actually mad.

"I took a shower this morning and I planned to wash it," she says, the words flowing from her mouth like the water had done from the nuzzle in her attempt to explain herself under his heavy gaze. "But the water was _warm_ and..."

She shrugs with helplessness, wishing that she could explain to him how miraculous it had been just to stand under the warm spray. She lost track of time because of the novelty and the delight of being so warm and comfortable. Consequently, she had rushed out of the shower when she regained full awareness of the situation, afraid that a nurse would drag her out like they always did when her five minutes were up.

"Are you saying that there was no warm water in the basement?"

She frowns, confused by his question - or rather, the obvious answer to it. From what she has learned of him so far, he is far too clever to ask redundant questions.

"Of course there wasn't."

He doesn't ask for explicit permission this time, but it feels only natural when he pulls her into his arms. Still, she wants to get him away from her, because she has just determined that her hair is a mess and really shouldn't be so close to this still almost entirely impeccable man.

But instead of being disgusted by it, for as far as he wasn't already after just touching it, he buries his nose right into her neglected strands of hair. It even seems like he breathes in deeply, as if purposefully taking in her scent, but surely that's only in her own imagination.

"My darling Belle," he whispers into her hair. "It doesn't matter whether your hair is entirely clean or not. You are lovely no matter what. But from now on, you'll never be cold again. You'll have as many showers and baths as you like, I'll make sure of it. I'll get you a pool - ten of them, if that's what you want."

" _Thank you_."

There's nothing more that she can say, not with yet more tears prickling behind her eyelids at his seemingly never ending generosity and loyalty.

"It's the least I can do, really. Just..."

"Just what?"

"Nothing," he says, too quickly, withdrawing from her with obvious reluctance. "I can't ask that of you. I _won't_ ask it."

"Rumple..."

She might have lost her memories and be not remotely as powerful as this man, but he apparently isn't the only one who can draw answers and whole truths from the other with little more than a glance.

"Let me take care of you." It may be an offer, a generous one at that, but it comes out more like a plea than anything else. "You don't have to stay with me, or anywhere near me, if that's not what you want. But _please_ let me know what you want and what you need, and let me arrange it for you."

"I know very little of the world," she says slowly, choosing her words carefully. "And probably less about myself. But I know that you are very, very kind to me. I've become... fond of you and I do believe that you only want the best for me."

It's incredible to witness his entire expression brighting, even when there's still something holding him back. He guards himself and his emotions as if he is terrified to get his hopes crumpled - again.

"I wouldn't want you to trouble yourself on my account. I'm... I'm not _her_ , not really. But I would like to keep seeing you. And if you'd really want to help me right now..."

"Anything," he says, in a way that leaves no doubt whatsoever that he literally would do anything for her. It's almost scary perhaps, but she can't help but savor this proof of that she is being protected and _cherished_.

"I'd like you to hold me again."

At first it's like he thinks that hasn't heard her correctly, as if he can't imagine that an embrace is all she would want from him. But then he smiles in that way she is already growing to love so very much, as if she has given him all he ever needed just by wanting to be near him.

Just an hour ago she would have been terrified by the notion of being held, _restricted_ , by anyone. By now she has learned that there's nothing more liberating than being held tightly in someone's loving arms.

As awkward as it was at first to find a way into his embrace that's comfortable for both of them, they don't have such trouble any longer. He simply watches her with a tender smile when she moves closer to him again. When her chest is pressed lightly against his and her head is resting snugly on his shoulder once more, he tenderly wraps his arms around her.

She breathes in deeply, sensing that she'll never get used to this, no matter how easy it has become to trust him and relax around him, more than she ever did in the confines of her cell. She couldn't feel freer than she does when he places his face against the crown of her head, surrounding yet more of her.

She suppresses the urge to close her eyes in contentment. She focuses on the little she can see of him from this close distance instead. Finding his neck mere inches from her face, she settles herself slightly closer to him, rubbing her nose playfully against his skin, giving in to another urge which she can't quite explain.

The noise he makes in response is far from playful, but she couldn't be less afraid of his low, surprised growl. But as lovely and _exciting_ as it is to hear it, she is rather distracted by the scent that envelops her now that she gets so close to him.

"You smell nice," she mutters, finally saying out loud what she has been thinking at various points throughout the evening.

He stills immediately and she inwardly curses herself for having spoken without thought, for upsetting him and, worse, not having any idea why.

"I... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"No, it's all right. It's just that..."

She goes to move away from him, but hesitates when she finds his embrace loose enough for her to break free from, but still very much there.

"What?"

"It's been a few long days," he mutters, his harshness melding into something very much like the self-consciousness she experienced herself just a moment ago.

Considering his words and finally understanding that he's as afraid of her reaction to his current physical state as she just was herself, she can't help but smile against him, shaking her head a little in amused disbelief.

"Belle, I..."

Now he is the one trying to get her away from him, but she won't let him. A part of her is flattered that he goes to _this_ extent to not displease her. But mostly she's shocked that this bothers him so much, whereas he earlier convinced her of his indifference regarding her own physical appearance.

"Like I said, you smell nice."

He ceases his attempt to remove himself from her, much to her delight. He makes a noise of reluctant objection, as if imagining that _that_ will dissuade her, but then gradually relaxes when she remains close to him, breathing him in.

Really, 'nice' is an understatement, although she admittedly can't think of how else she might describe the scent of him. It's appears to be a mixture of different things, many which she has never experienced before.

Despite having barely any memories beyond living in complete isolation, she can intuitively tell that it's quite strange to be with someone like this, basically smelling one another. But he is more than happy to let her do just that, his own face close to her strands even now, and she can tell that he isn't simply indulging her.

Indeed, he is quite clearly delighted to have her so close to him, enjoying her nearness in much the same way as she is relishing in his. All but breathing one another in, she focuses on what is purely _him_. She breathes in deeply once more, a subconscious little noise of appreciation escaping her.

He makes a similar sound and the warmth which rushes to her cheeks has nothing to do with embarrassment this time. It's more than being flattered by his apparent lack of disapproval of her current state; it's the discovery that he _likes_ experiencing her like this.

Slowly getting to know him in this particular way as well, she finds that he smells like a combination of things which she can't quite place, but which make her think of wool, books and fire... of _home_.

Before, she couldn't envisage anything remotely like a spot where she could feel comfortable and safe, perhaps even loved. With him however it isn't difficult at all to think of warmth and color, of pleasant furniture and large windows, doors without locks and the means to entertain herself. Not to mention at having people in her life, kind and _real_ , and a man who loves her as she might love him.

Her mind is filled with images of a happy life and she is not deterred at all by the awareness that it's another fantasy, and not a memory of the kind she craves. If anything, she's glad for it. At this point, she'd much rather have a good if unknown future than a good and known past... just as long as this man will be part of that future life.


	10. Chapter 10

Comfortable as she is now, she hasn't forgotten about the casual remark he made just a few minutes ago. The way her hair apparently used to be styled seems almost trivial now that he has already arranged it, but she enjoys this freedom to talk and ask questions far too much to stop.

"You said 'in this world'. Was it different, where we were before? My hair, I mean?"

Much as the mere notion of other worlds would have confused and possibly terrified her before, their existence - although not actually proven so far - is quickly becoming as normal to her as all the other things he is talking about.

"It was," he says after a few seconds, as if lost to this world as he studies her as much as she scrutinizes him. "I could show you, if you'd like?"

He sounds as if he doesn't expect her to agree to it, as if he can't imagine her wanting him to touch her yet more to recreate the way she wore her hair, once upon a time.

She nods eagerly though, by now so fond of this man's touches that there is no way that she's going to let such a chance go by. Her own enthusiasm might have shocked her before as well, would have sent heat rushing to her cheeks at the very least, but by now there is nothing but unconcealed anticipation and eagerness at his proposal.

There is tenderness, too, in the way he looks at her while awaiting her reaction, both so timid and very, very hopeful.

"There are different ways you used to wear your hair," he says, slightly hesitant as if _still_ not certain that she really wants to hear this, at least from him. "But at night, it was always the same."

"Show me," she breathes, hardly aware that she's all but commanding the man she was so very afraid of just a few hours ago - and that he obeys her as if there's nothing else he wants from life.

"I'm going to need something else to do that," he says, looking meaningfully at the mirror she's still holding.

She nods, realizing that his remark is more of a question. She finds more satisfaction than she supposes she ought to in the fact that he's informing her of his intend to use magic in advance, as if to warn her - or to ask her permission.

There's another cloud of purple smoke in the air. Although she's somewhat prepared for it this time, if only because she has seen such an incredible sight once before, watching an item appear out of thin air in the palm of his hand is still just as magical as it was the first time. It's something she supposes she'll never get used to, but she doesn't take the time to ask herself - or him - whether the woman she's supposed to be ever grew used to the fact that he has such powers.

When the purple mist has cleared again, he reveals a brush to her. It's from the same set as the mirror which she is holding herself, the color and decorations of the wood of both items matching perfectly.

She reaches for the wooden brush in his hand, only aware that she's doing so when their fingers brush. There's warmth in the accidental touch, a connection between two human beings. It's not of the kind she may have hoped for, the type which might spark something to help her remember, but the physical reminder that she isn't alone anymore is at least as meaningful.

Taking the brush from him, she holds it tentatively and studies it from all sides, more to admire the gorgeous item than to find anything to remind her of her past.

If he hopes to bring back at least some of her memories by providing her with a brush that she once must have used very much, there is no indication of this on his face.

This pleases her, despite the craving to have her memories back, to remember all the beautiful things he is telling about instead of only hearing about them. She has grown tired of trying to manage something which she can't achieve. Being told isn't as good as remembering the experiences, but just sitting here and enjoying his attention is wonderful in its own right.

She hands the brush back to him, cherishing the brief moment in which their fingers touch again, the solidness of him proving that he is so much more than just another hallucination of friendship, of _anything_ , the ones which were both a curse and a blessing when she was still locked up.

"Turn around?" he says, these two words too more a question than a request.

The shiver of delight that goes through her at the prospect of having her hair brushed by him is probably as noticeable to him as it is to her, but she hesitates. By now he is the only person who she trusts not to do anything harmful to her while her back is turned towards him and she thus can't see him. She has also reached the point where she isn't terrified any longer that he'll then disappear like the imaginary escapes and companions behind her closed eyelids were wont to do in the basement.

The reason that she doesn't want to look away from him is simply because she so very much enjoys letting her gaze wander over him. She just can't get enough of his eyes, from the warm color of them to the way they visibly soften whenever they look at her.

"This might help," he says, gesturing at the mirror, his expression so very tender and understanding.

It's only more difficult to turn away from him then, because he manages to know how she feels without her needing to explain it. It's a novelty to have someone who is willing to listen to her in the first place, but to give her what she wants and _needs_ without requiring any words whatsoever is a miracle of sorts indeed.

But then he looks meaningfully at the reflective glass in her hands and she beams in understanding. All her reluctance gone, she turns around on the chair, raising the mirror as soon as she is comfortable. Adjusting it until she has found the right angle, her smile only widens when she can still see him in the mirror, even though her back is facing him now.

"I need to..."

He reaches for her hair but doesn't touch it, all hesitant again, shy almost. It's confusing in a lovely way because _he_ ought to be the one to guide the two of them now that her memories are gone. _She_ is the one who is unaccustomed to any touch, let alone ones as special as these... unless he has been as lonely as she has been all these years; unless they have touched as little as he implied even when they were together.

She isn't going to consider it now, the lingering pain of her own loneliness barely bearable even without the knowledge that he may have suffered a somewhat similar fate.

"It's all right," she says, smiling at him. He returns her smile when their gazes briefly lock in the glass in front of her.

No longer painfully aware of her not entirely clean hair, she gathers all the locks she can reach and pushes them over her shoulder, towards him. She has the presence of mind to adjust the mirror again right after she has done so, being just in time to witness his look of complete awe when he is presented with her long curls.

"I'm going to..."

His gaze briefly flickers back to hers as he speaks, looking for confirmation once more. She marvels at his ability to express himself to her without having to use much words. It's probably a good thing that they barely need any words like this, for he seems to be less and less capable of finding them.

It's miraculous, really, how they can communicate just with a glance here and a gesture there, perfectly understanding one another despite the circumstances which are so much against them.

She nods, far from oblivious to the way his gaze is all but glued to the locks falling down her back as she does so. He isn't the only one who is enchanted though when he takes a few curls in his hand and begins to brush them with utter care.

Any worries and grieves she still carries with her at that point are forgotten, for the time being at least, when he begins to move the brush through her hair in ever so tentative and tender strokes.

She'd love to close her eyes, to simply focus on enjoying the delightful sensations he causes, but she forces her eyelids not to close themselves. She wants to experience as much of this as she can. Tightening her hold on the mirror, she keeps her gaze on him.

He brushes her hair methodically, going from the left to the right, not once even slightly hurting her despite the tangles in her hair. In spite of his systematic approach, there's something in every stroke which completely belies his efficiency, a slight tremble in his gestures.

She tilts her head towards him and remains like that even when he is done. His hands are strong and certain and yet so very gentle, and she is convinced that she'll never get enough of this, no matter if he were to do this for the rest of their lifetimes.

She wants this, forever, but any other time she longed for something - the ones she can remember, at least - that never happened. This time she isn't so sure of that however and her smile only broadens at the knowledge that this isn't going to end tonight... that the relationship between them is in all likelihood going to become only better and more enjoyable in the future.

Just watching him in the mirror is a delight. He is yet more relaxed than before, contentment and joy written on his features. Probably unaware that she's watching his expression so closely, even the way he basically caresses her hair is not as wonderful as seeing him like this, completely unguarded.

"You've often done this before, haven't you?" she asks quietly.

She watches him particularly closely when his eyes flutter shut even as he continues the brushing, further confirming to her that the task is both a very familiar and particularly enjoyable one to him. She'd almost think that the work is boring him, but she understands him well enough by now to understand that this easily made assumption couldn't differ more from the truth.

Still, his quiet but certainly audible sounds of appreciation is a most pleasant confirmation of her suspicion either way.

"I have," he murmurs, his voice low and soft and yet more intriguing, _addicting_ , than before. "I remember every single time."

The latter is added very quietly, as if in afterthought. It's a relief and yet so very frustrating to hear him talk of their past; their shared history is so beautiful yet so far away that it almost might as well not have happened to her at all.

This isn't the moment to dwell on it though. The time of their initial happiness might be behind them, but so are the days of emptiness and despair.

"I started doing this a few months after you came to work for me." Although she has no real reason to do so, she senses that it's unusual for him to talk like this, to say more than what is strictly speaking necessary. "You asked me to do it. I was grateful for that, because I longed to touch your hair like this but would never have dared to ask. I acted as if I was doing _you_ a favor, that I didn't really want to touch you like this. I suppose that you must have known just how glad I was that you asked me. I'm certain you caught me... well, staring whenever you brushed your hair in my company."

"Did you brush my hair in this world as well?"

Given the way he is expertly treating her hair now, as if hardly a day has passed since he has done so for the last time, she supposes that he would have brushed her hair like this very often. Yet he hesitates once more before replying, immediately reminding her of how he told her that he was afraid to use his favorite terms of endearment with her in fear of driving her away again.

Sensing the answer before it comes, she turns around again, not caring that her tresses fall from his suddenly limp fingers. She places her hand on his knee, patting it a few times for a lack of a better idea of how to reassure him once more.

"Just a few times," he says at length, looking at her but bowing his head slightly, his hair shielding most of his expression from her view. "In the beginning. When I still hoped that we could continue where we left off in our own world."

He doesn't need to tell her more to give her additional insight into his fears and his worries. She wishes that she could reassure him, that she could say to him just how very much she appreciates this particular kind of attention from him. The problem is that she can't talk for the woman who she can't remember.

" _I_ would like it if you did this every day."

The way he lifts his head abruptly, strands of graying hair falling aside to reveal a pair of widening honey-brown eyes, leaves no doubt that he knows exactly that she distinguishes herself from the woman he remembers - and that there is a part of him that is relieved by it.

"Anything you want," he mutters under his breath, sounding both amused and bewildered.

"What?" she asks, his tone confusing her much more than the actual words.

"I offer you anything I can give you. You know to at least some extent how much that is. Yet, all you've asked of me so far... is to brush your hair."

She shrugs, as if the answer is obvious.

"I very much enjoy it when you do that. It makes me feel..."

She frowns, trying to find the words to describe just what he causes within her when he brushes her hair, making her feel safe and yet so very excited at the same time.

"Like what?"

"Alive," she breathes in response to his inquiry, nodding to herself as she fully realizes just how much that is true, how stark the contrast is between his loving touches and the bleakness of her previous existence.

"Sweetheart..."

She hushes him, not wanting to see any more pain and regret in his gaze.

"It's all right, Rumple. Really."

"No, not at all. How can it be? After what Regina did to you... after what _I_ did to you..."

She hushes him again, more insistingly this time.

"I may not be able to remember it, but I know that what happened in the past isn't all right. But that has changed. Now, it _is_ right."

He nods weakly, much to her relief. The grief she experiences at seeing him filled with sorrow is yet another indicator that everything he has told her is true, that he is really so much more than a man who she seemingly barely knows.

"Continue?" she urges him gently, gesturing at the brush he is still holding, his knuckles white.

"Of course," he replies, doing just that.


	11. Chapter 11

Instead of taking the brush to move it through her tresses again, he lets go of the wooden item and reaches for her hair with his hands instead. She doesn't know what he's doing, but that doesn't prevent her from thoroughly enjoying his touch once more as he tenderly runs his fingers through her curls.

She makes a soft noise of appreciation when he begins to rearrange her curls again, this time more so than he did before. He divides her hair into three thick tresses, her eyes fluttering closed when she begins to understand what he is doing.

"If we are going to be together, I want you to tell me whenever you want to do anything like this," she says quietly, tilting her head back to give him more access. "I want us to share everything. It's... it goes both ways, Rumple. I don't think we can have what we want if we keep things from one another and don't tell each other everything, even if those are things that we are afraid of, or ashamed."

His hands falter and he goes very still behind her. She can still see him in her mirror, but his face has become a mask. For a moment, she wishes that she could _see_ him, right past his unreadable expression. Similarly, she so very much wants to remember something, _anything,_ from their past. All she has now is based on intuition and a lingering sense of inequality regarding the relationship he described.

But then there's movement behind her and he leans his head against her neck, her hair between them. They don't act like a shield of sorts whenever, not at all, not when he rests his hands lightly on her waist and breathes in deeply, all but whimpering when he rubs his nose against her neck.

"Yes," he mutters against her skin, the words heavy with despair even now. "I... I'd _live_ for that, Belle. I wouldn't have dared imagine that you would want that as well, and..."

He's doubting himself again, questioning just about everything about their relationship, and for now she just can't bear it.

"You still got work to do," she interrupts him, her tone both playful and stern, having no idea whatsoever where she finds the courage to talk to him like this in an attempt to distract him from his pessimistic thoughts.

"Of course," he mutters, relieved and amused, delighting her by doing exactly what she asked. It may be only temporarily, but he lets go of his anxiety nonetheless.

He continues his task, combing his fingers through her hair until he has neatly separated all of it into three tresses. Lovely as that is, he soon shows that it can get even better. When he begins to braid her hair, she sighs deeply in enjoyment.

He talks to her while he is focused on the task, his words quiet as he tells her how much he loves doing this, that he has always liked her hair so very much, and that he is honored that she wants him to touch her like this.

She smiles, reaching behind her to rest her hand on his knee, knowing by now that such a gesture can inform him just how much she appreciates his words and his efforts.

Ever since she joined him, she has thought various time that she has never been more at ease, the comfort she has experienced thanks to this man such a sharp contrast to the conditions she lived in for as long as she can remember. But now she learns that she wasn't entirely right to think so, that she can feel so much better than she already did.

With his coat still around her and his hands in her hair, his words only adding to the warmth inside her, she lets down barriers of which she didn't know that she was still maintaining them. She gradually leans back against him, smiling a little as he gasps with delight and immediately rearranges his position to accommodate her increased nearness.

Her eyes close on their own accord and there is no reason whatsoever to open them again, to do anything but focus fully on the pleasantness and safety of the moment. She may have thought before that she was protected and cherished, but it turns out that things can get even better than that.

For now – no, from now on - she _belongs_. Whether she can remember or not, this man is hers as much as she is his. Out of all the things she longed for when she was still locked up, out of all the fantasies she never expected to come true anyway, this is far better than anything she could have imagined when she was still locked away in the cell in the basement.

He is humming under his breath, so softly that she wonders whether he's aware that he's doing it. She smiles at the implicit confirmation that he is as comfortable as she is, that he enjoys this as much as she does.

He interrupts the sound to mutter a few quiet words to alert her that he is going to tilt her head a little. She nods to indicate that she understands, careful not to pull the braid out of his hands when he moves.

Much as she has grown distrustful of people who touch her, who force her to undergo things she doesn't want, she supposes that she probably wouldn't have been caught off guard by his increased touch even if he wouldn't have warned her in advance.

The braid is reaching her shoulders now and she can see his progress from the corners of her eyes. She is almost tempted to pull her hair free after all, if only so he might start over again. That way she could have more of this quiet perfection, of reverent hands touching her so very lovingly.

She doesn't, though. Not because she is afraid that he wouldn't want to braid her hair again, but because she looks even more forward to just being in his arms, without having him paying most of his attention to her hair.

As he completes the task, she focuses on his hands. How she marvels at them, despite mostly feeling instead of seeing them now. His fingers are long and elegant, strong and gentle alike. But there's a deftness to them she didn't notice before, a smoothness in the way he works. He indeed must have done this many, many times before. She can only hope that there'll be at least just as many to follow.

He has reached the end of her curls just a moment later, holding the edge of the braid in front of her as if to offer it for inspection.

"It's lovely," she says, properly taking in the neat braid for the first time. It's difficult to believe that this is the same hair that used to hang limply down her face and back, tangled and oily, almost her only protection in the night - that those tamed and relatively clean curls are actually hers. "Thank you."

"You're most welcome," he says, his tone leaving no doubt whatsoever that he indeed wouldn't mind at all to braid her hair over and over again, that he would only enjoy it. It strengthens her determination to ask him to do this for her every night to come. "How do you want me to tie it?"

"I suppose you have an idea about that as well," she replies, smiling again because she is a lot more certain than her playful words might imply – and she is equally sure that he is well aware of that. That doesn't mean that she isn't delighted that he asks her opinion, despite knowing her preferences - or at least those of her old self - better than she herself does now.

"I do, yes. There's a ribbon, still lying in your bedroom in our house. I could retrieve it for you, if you'd like?"

"I'd love that," she replies, already knowing that he isn't talking about physically returning to his – _their –_ house to take the ribbon. She thus isn't surprised in the slightest, yet still ever so much amazed, when there's another cloud of purple mist and he is holding a lovely blue ribbon when it clears.

"Do you like it?"

He already knows that answer too, she has no doubt about that. Or at least, he knows the answer that the woman who she is supposed to be would give - the woman who she in a way still is, but who she can't remember being. And yet, he asks _her_.

She beams at him in response, nodding enthusiastically. At least her fondness of this particular ribbon doesn't seem to have changed now that her memories are gone.

"Let me?"

She almost giggles with giddiness at the sight of him, gentle and ever so careful, ensuring himself of her complete agreement and willingness for the smallest of things, even now.

"Of course," she says, just in case her smile isn't enough of an answer to him.

He smiles back in response, maybe just a bit broader than the previous times. He is transformed in that sense, looking so much unlike the forlorn and lost man who she began talking to a few hours ago. Realizing that she wants him to smile like this so much more often, she tells herself that she'll make sure to try to give him plenty of reason to look so happy.

Then his hands are in her hair again and she sighs with contentment at the feeling of it, at being taken care of like this. The ribbon is deftly tied into her hair soon enough, keeping the end of the braid together and making sure that the curls won't escape.

When he is done, he tenderly places the braid between them, down her back. He lets go off her then. Although it disappoints her, since she hoped he would continue to be so pleasantly close to him, she doesn't have to go without his touch for long.

"Does this suffice?"

Only when his thumb brushes against her right hand, she realizes that she's still holding the mirror which he conjured earlier, the one which she forsook when she could directly see his progress from the corners of her eyes. Delighted at the prospect of seeing the full result of his work, she eagerly lifts the mirror again and takes a good look at the image that greets her.

She may have been afraid to look at her reflection before, to see the emptiness and despair in her own eyes, or even the sad state of her appearance, but that isn't the case any longer.

She gasps with delight as she admires his work. Her hair is braided neatly along the shape of her head, neither too tightly or too loosely. It's probably just her imagination, but her face already seems less gaunt, her eyes less sunken and her skin less pale because of the care he bestowed upon her.

No matter how joyed she is that she doesn't look like she is half dead any longer, her gaze is quickly drawn to the man behind her. It's not the first time that the mirror gives her an vantage view of him, allowing her to study him while he is oblivious to her scrutiny, but her breath is still quite literally taken away by the reflection of the glass.

He's looking at her as if there's nothing else in the world... nothing more beautiful than her. Even if they were to spend the rest of their lives together, she is convinced that she'll never get enough of the admiration and love in his expression. Especially not now that it's combined with the gentle pressure of his hand on her shoulder as he rubs her there ever so lightly.

She can tell that he would be more than happy to remain like this for the time being, a conclusion which is as incredible as the fact that she is learning to understand him like this. But as much as she enjoys his nearness, she has thought of something much better to do.

Lowering the mirror, she moves to give it back to him, so he can put it wherever exactly he conjured it from, along with the brush which he's still holding.

"Keep it," he murmurs, closing her hand around the handle of the mirror when she intends to return it, handing her the brush as well. "They're yours."

She hasn't owned anything for as long as she can remember, especially not anything so beautiful and meaningful. But she only glances at both items quickly when she delicately places them on the table at her side, next to the shards of his cup and the rose he gave her earlier. She'll most certainly admire these items to a large extent later on, but for now she'd much rather focus on the man who gave them to her.

She turns around to face him again, finding his for once idle hands on his knees. She covers them with her own, squeezing them in gratitude and encouragement, delighted when that previously so very rare smile returns quite easily to his lips.

"Thank you," she says, hoping that he'll know that she isn't only referring to the lovely braid. "I'd never be able to do that on my own."

"Feel free to ask for my... assistance whenever you want," he mutters. He meets her gaze, but the slight reddening of his cheeks belies his confidence.

Seeing him like this does nothing to reduce her giddiness. She didn't even know that she could feel like this, but she definitely feels like behaving very silly and enthusiastically indeed upon finding him so very eager to help her, to support her in whatever way he can. And to see him so awkwardly eager while he's at it, like she isn't the only one who wants all of this so much but doesn't really have a clue how to go about it...

"I shall keep that in mind." She most definitely will, but it doesn't feel like enough of an answer, not in this case. She might have no idea about her life, about what each new day might bring, but she's slowly beginning to see that she can influence it, that she can make an actual impact on her own fate now. "I would like my hair to be done like this tomorrow night as well."

It's truly mesmerizing how she has learned to talk like this. It's just as miraculous as having found someone who doesn't only _like_ her to make such requests, but who also aims to fulfill them.

"Just ask, and I'll be there," he breathes.

She understands perfectly now why he sounds like there's nothing he'd rather have happening, for she has exactly the same feeling.

"Thank you," she says, repeating her words from just a minute ago. She can't thank him enough for everything that he is doing for her, but that doesn't mean that she won't try.


	12. Chapter 12

Beyond moved by his promise of affection and dedication, she takes one of her hands from his and reaches for his face. There's a developing familiarity in this gesture, and a variety of others, which she savors almost as much as the man himself.

By now no longer reluctant to do so or even too overwhelmed to fully experience it, she caresses his cheek with her fingertips, exploring the strong line of his jaw and the stubble that covers it.

Just like before, he leans into her hand, his need for being touched like this clearly not diminishing at all. He lets out a quiet gasp as his eyes meet hers, light as melting honey. She brings her other hand to his face as well, cradling his cheeks.

She touches him like that for a wonderfully long while, until it doesn't seem quite enough any longer. Recalling how she brought her lips to his forehead just an hour or so ago - it might as well have been a lifetime - she gradually withdraws her hands, placing them on his shoulders instead.

His eyes open only a few seconds later, the small smile never leaving his lips. He looks as if he is content, having finally found some of the peace he has given her as well. It gives her a sense of pride and achievement she never knew before.

Wanting to recreate the sensations of their not quite kiss of earlier that evening, she shifts a little, moving closer to him until her face is only a yard away from his.

"Belle?" he asks questioningly, his voice as uncertain as it is eager, and just a little hoarse, making her tremble in a way she didn't know could be pleasant.

"Rumple," she murmurs, only aware when he groans ever so quietly that her voice must have taken on the same husky quality as his.

She leans in to him then, taking her time. It's torment of a lovely kind, especially when she closes the distance between them at last, his eyes widening.

Never ceasing to caress his cheek with her hand, she purposefully presses her lips against his other cheek. Her other hand finds its way back to his nape on its own accord, her upper body pressed slightly against this side. He inhales noisily at the contact, and so does she.

She sighs his name against his skin, pressing her lips against it once more as well, just so she can touch a slightly different part of him like this. His skin is soft but it is covered by a stubble, slightly rough against her lips. She can't get enough of it.

Before long, she is pressing kisses against his jaw and cheeks alike, breathing in the scent of him which she has already grown to love so much. His arm comes around her waist, its weight on her hip ever so light. She can hardly feel it through the thick material of his coat which is still covering her. Wanting to feel more of him, she wiggles a little until he takes a firmer hold on her.

It's almost difficult to imagine now that there was a time, one that ended only very shortly ago, that such a touch would have scared and revolted her... that _he_ would have done so. But now she doesn't want to spend another day without it.

" _Belle_..."

His gasp is a sound of pure delight and joy, raw and vulnerable, causing her to smile against his skin before whispering his name once more as well.

All those years locked in isolation, she used to long for so many things and fantasized about a great many more. She wondered at life outside the cell, at the world she could see a tiny part of through the narrow window just below the ceiling of her cell. She could only see the sky that way, but that was already so much compared to the emptiness of her room and life alike.

She had thought of what her life might be like if she were to actually have one, mentally living out dozens of them from start to finish. In her mind, she had been everything she wanted to be, had felt everything she wanted to feel - or so she thought. She might have believed that she has mentally experienced everything that's possible in the real world, but now she's finding out just how very wrong she has been about that.

For never, not once in all those years, she has been able to think of _this_ , of being held by a man like she is being embraced right now, of the sheer comfort and delight of it. Not once did she think there could be something like the strange sensations which he evokes deep inside of her, whether he's telling her of their life together, holding her, or simply smiling at her.

Despite her enthusiasm, she doesn't quite venture near his mouth. The notion of _kissing_ him isn't an unpleasant one any longer, but it doesn't feel quite right, either. But another idea presents itself and she is perfectly happy to pursue that one instead.

She can't tell whether it's a subconscious gesture or not, but the way he tilts his head back is undeniable. She isn't certain either whether he intended for her to do what springs to her mind when he bares his throat to her like this, but she has reached a point where she is no longer hesitant just to try.

He _grunts_ when she runs her tongue along his throat, all the way from the skin just above his tie to his chin. It looks like he wasn't expecting this in the slightest after all, which makes her only more eager to repeat the action.

Here too his skin is deliciously rough. Its gets even better when she expands her territory and finds something throbbing rapidly beneath her lips. Presuming that she must have found a vein, she recalls vividly just how good it felt when he touched her like this. Like he did before, she quite literally latches onto it, nibbling and suckling and, giving into a seemingly strange urge, biting carefully as well.

He is making all sorts of noises, sounds that do the most unfamiliar things within her, and make her react in kind. His head supported by her left hand while her right is roaming along his side, he tips his head back for as far as the wall behind him lets him.

She doesn't need any memories in order to know what it means that this man, with all his usual power and control, is more than happy to let her touch him like this. He has literally bared his throat to her, letting her run her teeth over one of the most vulnerable parts of his body.

She recognizes the sounds he is making as ones of pleasure just as easily. His both pleading and loving tone and pitch is surprisingly simple to interpret, even for her.

Instead of pondering her ability to be able to understand him like this, even with her memories missing, she takes a more practical approach, considering the fabric that's currently covering the lower half of his throat.

He isn't wearing his coat any longer, but beneath the tie and the jacket which are still covering him, she spots at least one more layer of fabric. His rapid breath and tightened hold on her waist prevents her from wondering just yet how she might get those layers of material at least partly out of the way, revealing more of his so very lovely skin to her eyes and mouth.

It's probably for the better. Despite the awareness that both of them want this, whatever those seemingly unusual sort of kisses and touches are anyway, she isn't certain in the slightest whether it's a good idea to do so right now, so very soon after their reunion of sorts, and in the middle of a hallway of the hospital.

She draws back abruptly as she recalls just where exactly they are, and that they are far from alone in the building, or even this part of it.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his eyes opening immediately. He seems confused for a moment, before his expressions becomes one of worry and almost tangible guilt. "I'm sorry. This is too much, for now at least. I shouldn't have encouraged you to..."

"It's all right, truly," she is quick to reassure him, smiling a little despite her realization and his obvious worry. "I'm glad that you are concerned, but I didn't stop because I didn't like what we were doing."

She is sure that she doesn't need to add that she _liked_ what they were doing, liked it so very much, with all the heat rushing to her cheeks.

"What is it then, sweetheart?"

She is surprised by how alert and focused he is, such a contrast to how lost he was just a few seconds ago. It worries her to see his dreamy and unmistakably happy expression having disappeared so quickly.

"We're sitting right here and... anyone could see us."

He is clearly relieved by her reply, a small smile finding its way back to his face. She's pleased that he is easily persuaded, this time at least, that she has no objections whatsoever anymore to touching him.

"We're quite alone here, dear. I cast a spell to prevent anyone from entering this hallway. Whenever someone wants to come anywhere near here, they realize they have quite pressing matters to attend to elsewhere in the building."

She too smiles at that, taking delight in the wickedness of his voice. But then she sobers, understanding what this might mean for other patients.

"You are the only one who is currently treated here," he says, again managing to reply to a question she hasn't asked yet. At this point, it doesn't bewilder her any longer. "No patient is being neglected here because I don't trust anyone to leave us alone for once."

"When did you cast the spell?" she asks, knowing that she hasn't noticed him doing so.

"Quite a while ago, soon after you joined me here and you miraculously didn't seem like you were trying to get away from me as quickly as anyone else would have done."

"I didn't see you doing so," she replies, more intrigued than anything else.

"Not every kind of magic requires a purple haze. It is quite theatrical, I admit. A lot of ways are more... subtle. I should have told you, right when I did it, but..."

He shakes his head a little, giving her a glimpse of sadness before his hair falls around his face like a curtain once more. Instinctively, she reaches out to wipe his hair from his face, to prevent him from withdrawing from her again.

"You were afraid that I would be upset if I would know that you were using magic. Because you used that spell before you told me about it, before you explained magic to me."

"Exactly."

"It's all right, Rumple. It really is. I understand why you used the spell without telling me. I'm just glad that you cast it."

"You are?"

He looks up abruptly, confusion replacing his worried sorrow. It's not much of an improvement.

"Yes. I wouldn't want people to see us like this."

"Of course," he says curtly, lowering his head again and scooting as far away from her as his leg allows. "You don't want to be seen with me."

"It's not _that_!" she gasps out, horrified. "How can you think that?"

He gives her a helpless shrug. His eyes are as sad as they are forgiving.

"You don't have to explain it to me. You don't have to defend yourself. There's no one who understands better than I do that you don't want people to know of our... continued association."

"You _silly_ man," she mutters, all but launching herself at him. "I _want_ to be with you, even if that only means finding out _how_ to be with you for now."

She clamps her arms around his chest, pulling herself as tightly against him as she can. Her chest is to his back, her bare knees ending up on the warm plastic of the part of the seat which he just vacated. Only when she buries her face in his neck, pressing stubborn and almost possessive kisses there, she is somewhat satisfied that he isn't going to get away from her out of a misplaced sense of shame after all.

"I don't want to be watched. It reminds me of how _she_ used to come and stare at me. I don't want to be reminded of that." She breathes in deeply out of necessity, her outburst leaving her quite breathless. It's hardly a punishment, his mesmerizing scent filling her along with oxygen each time she sharply inhales. "Besides, this is about us, _for_ us, and no one else. This is _private_. I don't want anyone else to see that."

She looks at him expectantly, quite certain that it isn't just in her imagination that his smile truly does get broader every time she reassures him.

"I couldn't agree more," he says, almost managing to sound entirely like he didn't doubt this so very much just a moment ago. "I promise that there'll be no one here who you don't want to for as long as you'll stay here. When you leave the hospital... I'll make any arrangements necessary to ensure you comfort."

He leans back against her, finally relaxing now that he is yet more assured of her comfort, both in the short and long run. Before, she would have been very curious, anxious more likely, about the 'arrangements' he is referring to. But now, she barely considers them.

It's not just that she has grown to implicitly trust him to support her, to help her decide about things she barely knows about; she simply doesn't want to think of anything but the joys of the here and now for as long as this most unexpected of closeness and affection lasts.

"I'm sorry for doubting you, Belle. I... I'm a weak man. I tend to think the worst. Of others, and of myself. I usually presume the worst, especially with regards to what... _who_ I love most."

"I think that someone should prove you differently. About yourself. And about others."

She places a single finger beneath his chin, making sure that he can't lower his head or look away from her, that there can be no doubt whatsoever that she's referring to herself.

"I love you, Belle," he breathes, still so very disbelieving, but not nearly quite as broken and desperate as before.

"I know. I think I can love you too. Again, I mean."

"Oh, sweetheart..."

Tears gather in his eyes again and her vision becomes blurry as well, but that just won't do, not this time.

"No more crying, Rumple," she says decisively, not wanting either or both of them to break down again. Just for now, she wants to focus on nothing but the happiness which is currently blossoming between them. "We've had enough tears for one night."

"You're perfectly right, my dear," he says, giving her a watery smile. "As you always are."

"And don't you forget it."

She still doesn't know where this boldness, this _banter_ , is coming from, whether it's a part of the woman who she is supposed to be that's shining through. It doesn't matter all that much when his smile broadens again.

"Never."

This time, it only takes a questioning glance from him and a brief, delighted nod from her to communicate their need to be as close to one another as they can be.

As he gathers her in his arms and they both sigh in contentedness, it's almost as if she has never known anything but his loving and protective embrace.


	13. Chapter 13

Her hands are on his chest and her head is on his shoulder. She snuggles against him, increasingly savoring his nearness instead of getting used to it.

That's why it takes her quite some time to notice that their current embrace gives her an accidental view on the items which are still lying on the small table next to the seats they are sitting on. She focuses on the shards of the cup which are on the bottom of the pile which has basically grown there.

It seems strange now, that those little pieces of china filled her with such dread before. Still, she has far from forgotten that they are part of the cup which he forced her to look at, to _focus_ on, whatever that means. Later, she felt awfully guilty for losing control over herself and smashing the cup in the hope that he would finally leave her alone.

She can't help but smile a little as she looks at those bits of porcelain now. If it weren't for those shards, she wouldn't be sitting here now with him.

"Can you use magic to repair the cup?"

She only realizes that she has spoken the question out loud when he makes a sound of confirmation.

"Just a simple spell would do the trick."

"Then why don't you?"

She breaks away from him a little, looking at him in confusion. He was devastated when she broke the cup, understandably so. After all, she herself ended up being feeling awful because of that small, fragile thing, and she is the one who has no memories of that cup whatsoever.

"For me, it's not about the cup itself. It's about what it represents."

"What does it represent?"

"Our love."

He speaks with utmost certainty, but she isn't following him.

"What do you mean?"

It's not that she doesn't believe that the cup can symbolize their relationship; it's just that she has difficulty picturing how the seemingly mundane object can be so strongly related to their feelings for one another.

"Maybe I put it a bit strongly," he replies, giving her an apologetic shrug, "but that's the way I see it."

"Can you tell me about it?"

Much as she'd like to hear about the cup itself, she's also very eager to learn more of their past in general.

"If you want to, yes," he says, regarding her closely. He doesn't look as conflicted as she expected him to be; it's truly as if his only requirement for telling her is that she requests him to do so.

"I'd like to hear about the cup. I know you said something about it when you visited me a few days ago, but..."

"It wasn't quite the right moment," he says, sighing. "I can't apologize enough for..."

"It's all right, really," she says, interrupting him quickly. "Both of us were wrong, and both of us were upset. We can't blame ourselves for that, especially not now that things are turning out fine after all."

"Indeed," he mutters, sounding relieved. "Please allow me to start over, and tell you properly this time. From the very beginning."

"I'm all ears."

She settles herself, making herself comfortable at his side, her head still on his shoulder.

"I must admit that I can't remember how the cup ended up in my possession," he says, looking past her at the shards. "But it was the one that you picked out to serve me my tea in during your first day at work in my castle."

It's funny, in a way which isn't humoring at all, how the notion of working for him in his _castle_ , being his caretaker, confused and terrified her so very much just a few days ago. It's not as if she has any actual evidence now that what he says is true, but it has become an accepted fact to her anyway. For when he looks at her like this, solemn and loving and hopeful, the words he is telling her are all the proof she needs.

"I... I didn't know you yet like I would get to know you. I didn't know you at all. When I... bargained for you, I was impressed by your strength, your independency. But I didn't expect that you would endure in the Dark Castle, working as my servant for all intends and purposes."

He stares off into the distance for a moment, the past so very far and yet only a memory away.

"I wasn't kind. To either of us. I longed for companionship, just someone to talk to... someone who might speak back. At the same time, I knew exactly who I was... _what_ I was. What I _am_. Driving anyone away, driving _you_ away... it's in my nature, Belle. Or rather, what's left of it."

She wants to disagree, to point out that what he's doing now is anything but driving her away, but she remains quiet for now. She'd prefer hearing the whole story before daring to speculate on the character of this unusual man.

"When you were serving my tea that very first time, I made a cruel joke. It was just an attempt to startle you... to see what you would do. I expected you to... well, to cry. But you didn't. You only dropped the teacup. If it weren't for that, I might have thought you hadn't heard me at all. When you picked up the cup, you discovered that it was chipped. You apologized, arguing that you could barely see the damage. You were more worried about the cup itself than my reaction. It was... intriguing."

He has already told her this, in so many words. In fact, this is actually the third time that he is telling her. But she's glad that he does, for he tells her new things each time, allowing her to gradually expand her knowledge and understanding of their past.

"I began using the cup, at first more out of habit than anything else. And when you ended up joining me for tea every day, it became some sort of joke between us."

He smiles a little, clearly having very good memories of the times they had tea together. Of course, she wishes that she were able to remember as well. But whereas hearing about it like this isn't quite the same thing, it suffices for now, his smile telling her most of what she wants to know.

"But when you eventually kissed me, when I thought you had betrayed me... I was... upset."

She squeezes his knee in encouragement, very much aware how difficult it is for him to think back on this, not to mention to narrate the events which he regrets so very much.

"I was upset and angry and... hurt when I thought that you had purposefully made me believe that you could love me, that none of it had been genuine. I smashed things. Quite a lot of things. Including the teaset on the table. I wanted to destroy every last piece of it, but when I took our cup and saw the chip... I just couldn't do it."

Sensing that there's still something inside of him which can't quite believe that she wanted - _wants_ \- nothing rather than being with him, she squeezes him more tightly. There's a brief wince of discomfort on his face, but she doesn't let go, not until he covers his hand with her own and smiles uncertainly at her, indicating that he understands why she does this.

"Since the day I threw you out, I readied the remaining items of the teaset each afternoon, hoping that you would come back and that we could have tea like we used to. But you didn't come back and I didn't use the cup again. When Regina came to me to tell me that you had died, I believed that the cup was the only thing I had left of you."

This time, her touch is as gentle as it can be when she caresses his knee, by now knowing that her comfort makes this easier for him. Then again, she has the feeling that it will never get any less difficult for him to think of the long time in which he had believed her to be dead because of Regina's lie.

"The cup become one of my most cherished possessions. I placed it in the main hall of my castle, on the largest pedestal. It was painful just to look at it... because it reminded me that I had lost you and that you had suffered so much because of me. But it also made it impossible for me to forget - to _deny_ \- that we had shared happy days together. Just a handful of them, or so it seems, but..."

He shakes his head again, his pained expression implying that the happy moments they shared barely outweigh the pain of their separation. She wants to address that, explicitly, but this too doesn't seem to be the right moment.

"The curse which brought us to this world also transported many things from the Enchanted Forest to here. The cup was one of them. Not that I knew it, at the time, of course. My memories were gone as well. Just like everyone, except for Regina, we had fake memories which made us believe that we truly belonged in this world."

This information is interesting to her in a whole different way. She makes a mental note to ask about this later, for now pleased to find out that she's in perfect control of the ever growing list of topics for later conversation in the back of her mind.

"I kept the cup in my house. I still didn't use it, although I didn't know why at the time, but I found it soothing to have it near me. All I remembered then, or thought to remember I should say, is that I was a lonely pawnbroker who fell in love with his housekeeper. She supposedly died in a suspicious car crash very shortly after we admitted our feelings to one another."

She never thought that one could have too many memories, but she realizes now that being haunted by memories wherever you go, ones that aren't necessarily entirely truthful, is probably just as unpleasant as having no memories whatsoever.

"One day, I had a... disagreement with your father. I had regained my memories by then and I knew who he was, and which role he had played in your fate... according to Regina, at least. Based on that false information, I might have treated him... unfairly."

She doesn't know why he starts talking about her father now, especially since he barely did so all this time before, and she listens only more closely.

"My house was robbed the same day. There was no questioning the identity of the perpetrator. Miss Swann, the Sheriff, retrieved all objects which he had taken... except for one."

"The cup," she says quietly, understanding now where he is going with this. But that's about where the clarity ends for as far as she is concerned, the things he implies about her father thoroughly shocking her. She doesn't know her father – or rather, she doesn't remember him – and neither is she aware of what exactly went on between him and the man opposite her, but for the man who raised her to _steal_...

"Indeed. I located your father, but he didn't have the cup. But I wanted... I _needed_ it back. He wouldn't tell me where it was. I'm not proud of this and I would have preferred to keep this from you for as long as possible, hopefully forever, but..."

"Honesty," she fills in, recalling exactly what they talked about earlier that evening. From now on, they're going to be honest to one another, about everything. Even - especially - about the most difficult things.

"I hurt him, Belle. I hurt your father. I didn't mean to lose control, but... it wasn't only about that cup anymore when I was beating him. I believed that you wouldn't have been dead if it weren't for him. All I could think of is how he rejected you, how he had you tortured. Or at least, that's what I thought, because of what Regina had told me."

"Rumple, I..."

His eyes are pleading for forgiveness, for understanding at least, but her mind is spinning with what he is telling her.

"Do you want to talk about this another time?" he asks, sounding more hopeful than anything else.

"Yes, please," she says, grateful for the opportunity to stop talking about this most confusing and terrifying topic. And, just as importantly, for his implicit promise not to conveniently forget about it, but to continue the conversation at a better time.

"Of course, sweetheart. I'm sorry. This was probably too much to talk about yet, but..."

"But what?"

"It feels good, Belle."

He dares a quick glance at her, then lowers his gaze, his hair moving to cover his face again.

"To talk to you. To finally tell you everything. It feels... good."

There's a lump in her throat when it dawns on her that she apparently never knew this about him and her father before, not even when she had all her memories... that, in a way, he trusts her more than the woman who she is supposed to be.

"You'll always be able to tell me anything you want, Rumple. That won't change after tonight. I don't want you to feel pressured to tell me everything you want me to know right now."

She wouldn't have thought it possible before, but she's beginning to see that there can also be too much knowledge of her past, especially if there are revelations which she wasn't aware of even before her memories were taken from her.

"I appreciate that very much. I would truly like to talk with you about this at a better time."

She finds herself imagining doing just that. She can already see herself like that, spending long nights curled up at his side, just talking. They would be somewhere nice and quiet, perhaps even underneath a starlit sky...

Given the hope that's written all over his face, she isn't the only one with such desires, such expectation, for the near future.


	14. Chapter 14

He clears his throat after the moment of quietness between them, ready to continue the tale of the cup which once was made of the very shards they are looking at.

"Regina set your father up to steal the cup from me. The Sheriff locked me up for beating up your father. Before I could arrange for my release from prison, Regina paid me a visit. She offered me the cup... in return for my name."

"Why would she want to know your name?" she asks, understanding by the stake of the bargain that his name must be very important, but not seeing how that can be so. "Didn't she know it already?"

"She wasn't certain about it yet in this world. Names hold power, dear. I had regained my memories of our real identities and histories, of both our true goals and purposes. Regina and I weren't exactly on good terms when we left the Enchanted Forest. She didn't know for sure whether I remembered who I really am, and thus to which extent I was willing, not to mention capable, to go against her. When she forced me to tell her my name, my true name, she knew for certain that I indeed know the truth."

"I understand."

She can most certainly see why he agreed to that trade, the cup for a confirmation of his true identity. At the same time, it seems a bit strange that he forced Regina to go through such lengths to find out about his name while he told _her_ so easily. After all, she didn't doubt him for a second when he told her that names have power, whatever that means exactly.

Of course, she supposes that he trusts her as much as he distrusts the cruel woman, but to give it so freely to her, before he could be certain that they would end up connecting like this...

"Rumple _is_ your real name, isn't it?"

"It is, sweetheart. In a manner of speaking, at least."

"What do you mean by that exactly?" she demands, although there is no suspicion in her voice. A remark such as this would have made her yet more distrustful of him only a while ago, but now she doesn't believe any longer that he would lie to her, or purposefully keep things from her.

"My name, my real name, is Rumplestiltskin. You used to call me Rumple. I like that, very much so. I'm far from fond of my full name. I didn't tell you it before because I was afraid it would sound too... unbelievable. I didn't want to confuse or scare you any further."

"I'm glad. If you would have asked me to call you Rumplestiltskin at the very beginning... well, I don't know much about names, but it probably would indeed have appeared very strange to me. I might have thought that you were fooling me. I wouldn't have wanted that, especially not now I have gotten to know you like this. I know now that you wouldn't mislead me like that."

There's something which crosses his face that's quite unlike the dislike he hinted at when talking about his full name when she says his real name for the first time. It makes her realize that there's at least a part of him that revels in being addressed by her like this. It's another insight that she stores away in her mind for later use.

"When I regained possession of the cup, I kept it in my shop from then on," he says, continuing his narration. "It's safer there and I spent more time there anyway."

He speaks matter-of-factly and her heart breaks a little more for him upon finding out just how much his house sounds more like a mere building than anything else. It's far from the safe haven, the cozy and comfortable _home_ , that she would like it to be - for his sake, and her own.

"You spotted it there, when you were freed from here for the first time. You seemed... surprised that I still had it."

She doesn't know whether her actual self was taken aback by the fact that the object showed up in this world, or that he had hold onto it with such fierceness to begin with.

She can only hope that she, in her other lifetime, wasn't surprised because he kept an item which obviously means so much to him.

"I have kept it in the shop ever since. I liked to look at it, to remember, especially when you left again. By then, I had half a house full of the things I acquired for you... but nothing reminded me as much of you as the cup did."

Considering his words carefully, she is more and more under the impression that he perceived and treated her exactly like the cup. It sounds exactly like he saw her as something very precious that he never dared getting close to, let alone touch, something to treat with extreme care out of fear for damaging her.

She'd much rather have him actually interact with her, touching her, _living_ with her. She's a person, not an object, and she won't break all that easily. But words aren't enough to convey that and neither suffices the time that has been granted them now. It's something that she'll have to show him, slowly and gradually. She can only hope that she'll have that chance.

"So with magic there's a way to fix the cup?" she says, thinking back of the question that started all this. "But you don't want to use it?"

"It seems wrong to use magic for this. It would be too easy, too neat. It doesn't suit what we are going through."

"It doesn't," she mutters, agreeing that it wouldn't be right to repair the cup with only a puff of purple smoke and a flick of his wrist after all this. And yet, to leave the cup like this, broken in dozens of tiny pieces... that isn't right either. "Is there no other way? Something more... suitable?"

"We could try a way that's more... traditional in this world. I don't know whether it will truly work, but... we could give it a try."

His hopeful expression persuades her as much as her own curiosity does.

"How can we do that?"

"By repairing the cup ourselves, without any help. Well, not of any magical kind at least. Let me show you."

There's a snap of his fingers and more purple smoke. It reveals a tube when it clears. He hands it to her as soon as it has materialized.

"It's glue," she says, reading the letters that are printed on it, but not fully understanding them.

It's only at his pleasantly surprised expression that she realizes what she just managed.

"I can _read_ ," she breathes, awed. There was no reason for her to presume that she wouldn't be able to, but in the same way there was no proof that she would. She has gone for so long without anything with letters on it which she might attempt to decipher, that it didn't occur to her to go looking for something like that now that she can.

"You enjoy reading. A lot. In the past, at least. I'll make sure to get you all your favorite books - and all others, If you'd like. You might still enjoy them."

"That would be lovely," she says, thoroughly delighted by the prospect.

But for now, she is focused on the little tube. She might be able to understand the words which are printed boldly on it, but that doesn't mean that she actually understands what it does.

"It's a sticky substance that allows us to keep parts of a variety of kinds of materials together."

"Like the pieces of the cup!" she cries out, excited. "We can put it back together."

"Indeed we can," he replies, his smile wider than it has ever been before.

"Can we get started right now?"

"Most certainly, if you would like to."

"I do," she replies, finding herself almost bouncing on her seat in excitement.

There's yet more purple smoke and then there's a table in front of them, giving them a perfect workspace. Understanding his intention, she carefully gathers the shards from the little table at her side, making sure to pick up even the smallest ones.

Once she has them all, she solemnly places them on the new surface in front of them. Subconsciously, she places the pieces right between them and sorts them, from the largest to the smallest parts.

Before she has put them all down, she already notices that several of the larger pieces clearly fit together. Excitement of a kind she never knew before coming over her, she picks up those pieces and starts to fit them together, trying them in various ways until both the blue pattern on the white porcelain and the shape of the cracks is a perfect fit.

Almost having forgotten that he is there, she is reminded of his presence when he screws the lid off the tube and hands it to her, his expression one of hope and pride.

She is having her hands full at the moment, not being able to take the tube without letting go off at least one of the pieces. And although it was surprisingly easy to fit those first pieces together, she doesn't have a clue how to actually use the glue which he acquired.

"Can you do that?"

"Of course," he says, sounding so very joyed at the prospect that she wonders why he didn't propose to do it in the first place.

She watches with fascination when he puts some of the semi-liquid from the tube onto the edges of the shards and then gestures for her to put them together, like she just already did a moment ago.

She does as she suggests, smiling in delight when she feels the forming connection between the pieces. Her smile fades quickly though when she inhales the scent of the glue.

She gags when a smell stronger than anything she can remember assaults her senses. Even the stuff that was used to clean her cell in the basement every once in a while didn't smell as bad as this does.

"What is it?" he asks, panicking.

"The smell," she manages, pointing at the tube he's still holding. "It's _awful_."

There is no purple haze this time, but the most unpleasant smell is gone just a second later.

"Thank you," she says, figuring that he must have used magic of a different kind than the one she has witnessed before in order to vanish the scent of the glue.

He glares at the tube with a frown on his face, as if he can punish the substance for upsetting her by merely looking at it.

"I should have realized..."

"Should have realized what?"

"The scent is indeed quite strong. It can already be unpleasant for people in a normal condition, but you... It seems like your senses react as if they have never experienced something like this before."

"And they have?" she deduces from his tone.

"Yes. You are used to much worse. There's a traditional method I use for waterproofing some of the items in my shop. It requires lanolin, which is harvested from the wool of sheep. It's scent is quite... peculiar. Very strong, too. It didn't stop you from joining me in the back of my shop, where I do repairs and other maintenance work, such as waterproofing. You said you liked to watch me work."

"I can imagine," she says quietly. She is relieved to hear that she used to come over to him, just so she could watch him; she doesn't need any memories in order to know how much that must have meant to him.

At the same time, it might explain why she is so very fond of doing nothing but watching this most intriguing man; it's a trait which has been part of her, somewhere, all along.

"It seems that you senses are to at least some extent linked to your memories. I got to admit that I don't know whether this is normal or whether it's related to the magical... nature of your memory loss. We can ask Dr. Whale about it, if you'd like."

"I think I do, yes," she says, considering. She wants to know as much about her condition as she can. Not just because she wants to make full use of the fact that she can actually learn things about herself, or at least about what is _wrong_ with her, but also because she finds herself experiencing a general curiosity regarding the possible effects of magic on people's health.

"Maybe you'd like to finish this first?" he asks, gesturing at the two pieces of porcelain of which she's barely aware that she's still holding them. "I imagine that Dr. Whale isn't available here anyway, at this hour."

There's something about his tone that implies that he's going to talk to the doctor no matter how if she would want that, but there is no need for that for as far as she is concerned. She is currently well anyway and it would be nice not to have any medical staff around for just a while longer.

In fact, she's much better than she has ever been, based on the memories which she _does_ have. Besides, she's enjoying just being here with him far too much to even think of going somewhere else or talk to anyone else.

"Yes, I'd like to do this first," she simply says, focusing her attention on the shards once more, the awful scent of the glue already all but forgotten.

She hasn't looked at the shards since he banished the smell of the stuff that she just put between the bits of porcelain. Now it turns out that the sticky semi-liquid is not moist any longer.

Eyes widening in delighted surprise, she sees that the two pieces of china are all but fused together, almost as if they never had been apart to begin with. Even when she lets go of one of them, the two parts remain together despite the limited support from her.

"This world may not have magic, but it has some very interesting things to offer nonetheless," he says, smiling and not taking his eyes off the cup.

"Do you suppose we could repair the whole cup like this?" she asks, critically eying the admittedly large number of small pieces before them.

"I think so. We can try at the very least."

"I'd really like that, yes."

Reaching for the pieces again, she knows that this isn't just about the cup itself. It's just as much about the repairs in their own right, at the challenge of fixing the cup together – of the _joy_ that both of them find in the task.

He gives her a piece, along with a tentative smile. Breaking her gaze away from the beauty of his expression to take a good look at the china, she notices that the blue figure on the new piece matches that of the two combined shards she's already holding.

From there on, it takes her only a short while to find out just how two halves of a delicately painted twig are supposed to fit. Before she can ask for it, he has the tube of glue at the ready and applies a few careful drops to both the single piece in her hand and the two parts she already combined in her other.

Once that's done, she carefully presses both sides against one another, watching with fascination how the liquid gradually hardens and connects the pieces.

More pieces follow, more dollops of glue and gentle brushes of hands. They share muttered instructions and timid smiles. The shards get smaller and become more difficult to attach to the slowly forming cup in their joined hands, but it doesn't matter now that they are sitting closely to one another once more and are repairing the cup together.


	15. Chapter 15

After quite a while, there are no more unconnected pieces of china between them and the item that they are holding resembles a cup once again. It's not quite what it must have been like, with the far from invisible break lines and some spilled drops of glue coating the china.

The most noticeable imperfection of the cup is however a small but undeniable chip at the rim. She smiles fondly when she spots it, fully visible only now that the more recent damage has mostly been undone.

"It's not broken anymore, but it's not quite whole either," she murmurs pensively, eying the result of their efforts.

"We never were," he says quietly, just as thoughtful, almost absent-minded.

The remark draws her from her focus on the repaired cup, fixing her gaze on him instead. She finds him still staring at the no longer destroyed china.

It's the first time that she truly understands why this cup is so important to him, why he reacted the way he did when she broke it – why he is like this now that it is mostly whole again.

It's not just that the cup is an object that reminds him of her, of that long ago time when they fell in love and lost one another. It's more than an item that's there whenever something happens between them, whether it's the start of her life at his castle, their deepening friendship and blossoming love, or the symbol of their separation and regret.

More than all that, for him the state of their relationship and the condition of the cup are one. From the chip when she gained his full attention for the first time, to the fact that he didn't smash the china even when he doubted her sincerity of her feelings so very much and finally the despair when she broke it, no longer remembering either him or their love.

"We could be," she whispers, letting go of the cup with one hand to bring her fingers to the side of his face, caressing his hair and cheek. "I want that, for us to be whole."

"I want that too," he breathes, all sincerity and moist, honey brown eyes. "I've wanted it for so long, Belle. But there was always something keeping us apart. Myself, mostly. Our love means so much to me, but I just don't know how not to ruin it. I end up driving you away and I don't know how to change that, to be the man who you might deserve."

She would have wished just a few hours ago that she would have her memories back if only because they might help her find a response to his implicit plea. But now she finds that she knows exactly what to say, even without remembering anything of their past.

"I don't know what happened to us in the past," she replies, her voice just as tentative as her hand on the side of his face. "I don't know anything about a lot of things, especially not when it comes to this. It seems we are quite similar in that regard."

She is silent for a moment, taking in his half-closed eyes and his tilted head as he leans into her touch, eagerly awaiting whatever she's going to say next.

"What I do know is that both of us want to find a way to be together. That we _really_ want to. I also know that everything that has happened tonight, everything that you did, did the complete opposite of driving me away."

His eyes are wide open now, his gaze boring deeply into hers.

"I suppose it won't always be like this, so... perfect. But if it is most of the time, or even sometimes... just as long as we truly try, I can't imagine wanting to be apart from you."

" _Yes_ ," he gasps, as if what she just described is all he ever hoped from life. "To try to be together like that... to try again. I've made mistakes in the past, so many of them, and I didn't think I'd get the chance to show you that I learned from those wrong decisions. It made me see that I truly can't bear life with you... nothing is more important to me than being with you."

"Well then," she says, for the very first time beginning to realize that there also might be an advantage to her memory loss. This might as well be the brand new start that both of them apparently needed so very much. "It looks like this time, for once, nothing is stopping us from being together."

The smile he gives her in response is wider than she has seen on him before, more radiant than she thought possible even after getting to know him throughout the past few hours. The same goes for the elated grin on her own face.

Hence, she isn't all that surprised when she ends up laughing, a genuine and cheerful sound straight from her belly. It's something she didn't know existed, let alone something she is capable of.

He joins her a few seconds later, his look of never ceasing disbelief and delight indicating that joy of this kind is something the two of them have never shared either. It makes her only happier to have found this with him now, more determined that the loss of her memories isn't necessarily only a bad thing.

Both of them quieting down eventually, but their smiles not fading entirely, she looks at the no longer broken cup in their joined hands. Recalling what he told her before, that the enchantment he put on the cup might help her remember, she focuses on the ever delicate china as much as she can.

It's not that she feels that she owes him to do as he requested her half a day ago now that she has the chance again; she simply wants to try anything she can to regain access to her memories. She already knows him so much better than she would have dared hope, but she feels that she can't have enough understanding of him.

Having accepted by now that she can't remember anything from before she woke up on the road in the forest, she isn't disappointed when nothing happens as she stares and focuses on the cup. She remains trying though, out of curiosity for a glimpse of the magic that might unlock her memories more than anything else.

There's nothing though, not the merest hint of _something_ when the seconds pass in silence.

"What is it?" he asks, all concern and fear once more.

Blinking, she directs her attention back to him, realizing that it might have been unnerving for him to have her quietly looking at the cup for so long. The knowledge that others can see her now and will probably base thoughts and assumptions on her behavior and appearance is something else that she's going to have to get used to.

She wouldn't have it any other way, though. Difficult as adjusting to the real world is in all likelihood going to be, anything will be better than having to get back to her cell in the basement - especially when she has him at her side, guiding and supporting her with each and every single step. There is no doubt that he'll do exactly that, no matter how slow her adaption is going to be... and no matter how different she might turn out to be from the woman who she was.

"There's nothing wrong," she assures him. "Or at least, nothing more than before. I was just focusing on the cup, like you said earlier, when you showed me the cup for the first time. I tried, but I don't think it's working."

"I feared it wouldn't, to be honest."

"Because it was broken? Did that make an end to the enchantment?"

She doesn't have a clue how magic is supposed to work, what its rules and limitations are, but that doesn't prevent her from speculating. His gentle smile informs her that he's aware of that and that he appreciates her inquisitiveness.

"The enchantment was weakened because of the... accident. I could have cast the spell again, but I don't think that it would have made a difference. Especially not now. The magic has only grown stronger since I cast it. Whatever magic might have been able to bring your memories back to you, it would have already done so while we repaired it."

"So it wouldn't have worked before, either," she says, slightly relieved to find that she at least hasn't ruined a good chance of getting her memories back when she smashed the cup earlier that day.

"Probably not," he admits. "I... well, I never was convinced that it would actually work. It was a wild guess. I didn't want to admit it to myself, but I never believed that it would really make a difference."

"Then why did you bring it to me? You seemed so certain of yourself when you asked me to hold the cup and look at it."

"I'm a foolish man, sweetheart. I was willing to try anything to help you remember, just as long as it wouldn't hurt you."

He winces and she doesn't need to ask why. He may not have hurt her, not physically at least, but he did leave her very upset. It's clear now though that everything has turned out for the better. They wouldn't be here now, together, if it wouldn't have been for the fear which led her to smash the cup.

She places her hand on his again, soothing him by reminding him that she isn't upset any longer.

"I was aware that it was probably no use to try. But I... I would have given so much just to see you again, to talk to you perhaps. And of course I hoped I could make you less afraid. The cup... whether it would work or not, it gave me an excuse to visit you again, to be near you. It had been just a few days since you lost your memories, but I missed you so much."

She can't speak for the woman who she used to be, but she only hopes that her past self has never taken his love for granted, never thought of his affection and dedication as anything less than special.

"I can't live without you, Belle."

His tone is apologetic, and she can't stand it. If it weren't for the circumstances, for the delicacy of the moment, she might have been angry at the woman who she once was. She doesn't know much, but the way her supposed True Love questions his very wish to express that love horrifies her.

She wonders what can possibly have caused him to be almost afraid to tell her just how much she means to him. But it's a question that will have to wait. For now, she wants to reassure him, to let him know as clearly as she can that his declarations of love and dedication bring her nothing but joy.

"I know I don't remember you beyond the past few days. I hardly know anything about love," she says, tightening her hold on his hand as she choses her words carefully. "But I do know that you mean very much to me. I want to get to know you, all over again. I think I could fall in love with you. Properly."

She looks him straight in the eyes when she says the last words, feeling particularly bold as she does so. But the more they talk, the more she feels that there was something thoroughly lacking in their earlier relationship, a trust and honesty that seems so very important to her. If they are going to be together, if they are going to try again, she wouldn't want to do so with the doubt and hesitancy that seems to have characterized their interaction in the past.

He doesn't say a word, doesn't move, just looks at her with those eyes of his, as if he can't believe that she's really saying this - as if he thinks that it's too good to be true. Looking at him closely, she is aware of the subtle change in his gaze as she pointedly holds it, of the unabashed hope that blossoms in its depths.

It's not the first time this has happened tonight, but she is convinced that his optimism grows stronger each time.

Then he is smiling at her, another one of those beautiful, truly happy smiles. He doesn't need to speak to convince her of his gratitude and disbelief, the way he clasps her hands between his own telling her all she needs to know.

Because she presumes that the same doesn't go for him - not yet, anyway - she does speak as he caresses her with his thumbs.

"I'm not going anywhere," she promises.

"I won't let go of you again. Never. Unless... well, unless you want me to."

She opens her mouth to object, to inform him in no uncertain terms that she doesn't want him to let go of her under any circumstances. But she changes her mind before she tells him so.

It's very true that she doesn't want to be away from him, that she wants to be never apart from him again. He wants that too, just as much as she does - and that's why it's only more wonderful that he offers her a way out, making very clear that he won't prevent her from leaving him if she where to wish to do so. It doesn't matter that this is the last things she would want, that she'll fight for their love.

It _does_ matter that he's giving her a choice... that he's offering her freedom. Now, and always. So that's why she doesn't object after all when he insists that he won't unconditionally hold on to her.

"We're going to be together," she murmurs, "but we'll always be free."


	16. Chapter 16

"I'd like for us to be together like that," he murmurs, "very much so. I want a life with you, Belle. Never believe otherwise. But not against your will."

She beams at him as he describes exactly what she hopes that the two of them will be like. It's his way of confirming that he wants the two of them to be together, but not when either of them doesn't want to anymore.

He looks like he wants to say more, but no words come out of his mouth. She understands, for she doesn't know either how to react to this implicit promise of both togetherness and freedom.

It soon turns out that this is yet another occurrence in which they simply don't need words in order to understand one another. Anything they might have said is right there as their eyes lock, their smiles almost identical.

There is a need to be yet closer to one another, to make an immediate start with the relationship which both of them crave so very much. They have held each other several times throughout the evening, but never with the emotional closeness they have now reached.

That makes it no less than natural for her, nothing but intuitive, to settle herself on her knees at his side. Looking straight at him, she places her hands on his shoulders, both to ensure her balance and because she simply enjoys touching him so very much, no matter where and how.

She moves slowly, both because she wants to savor the slow approach and because this is something else which is entirely new for her. It reminds her that it'll be like this for probably quite a long time. She's surely learning and discovering, but she has no doubt that she'll find new challenges for each unfamiliarity she overcomes.

It would have scared her, before. It would have terrified her. But with this man at her side, his support as unwavering as his love, it doesn't seem all that awful in the slightest. If anything, she is looking forward to the weeks - months, however long it may take - of discovery and exploration of every aspect of the life which she's supposed to have.

Never looking away from him in order to make sure that he's as comfortable with this as she is herself, she lifts her knee over his legs, settling it right next to his thigh. She lowers herself carefully, making sure not to hurt his leg when she gradually rests her weight on him.

He relocates his hands to her waist, guiding her back a few inches. She doesn't know why he won't let her sit pressed tightly against him, but she supposes that this too is something that will make sense in due time. All she does is shake her head briefly when he starts to withdraw his hands, letting him know that she'd like him to continue holding her like this.

Even if it wouldn't have been for the coat that's still covering her, effectively blocking most of her body from his view, she wouldn't have been embarrassed by the way the hem of her already low-cut hospital gown rides up when she settles herself like this.

Neither is there any shyness when she wraps her arms around his neck, finding that she can hold onto him in a very pleasant way despite the slight distance between them. She isn't necessarily closer to him than she has been before, but it feels more intimate now that her legs are on either side of his.

Their chests pressed lightly together, she finds that she can lay her head on his shoulder, thus pleasantly resting her head and being wonderfully close to his ever sensitive neck at the same time. She can't see his face any longer, but she doesn't need to in order to know that his eyes are closed as he savors the feeling of her breath against his skin, that he sighs deeply whenever she rubs the tip of her nose lightly against him.

She sighs too, very happy to be near to him like this. He tightens his hold on her in response, ever so tender fingers stroking her through the material of the gown, right above her hips, as he does so.

She can both see and feel the flutter of his heartbeat, right there where a slightly red mark on his skin indicates where she kissed him earlier. Wanting a yet more substantial proof of his nearness, of his very existence, she maneuvers a hand between their bodies until it comes to rest right above his heart.

Its beat is regular beneath the layers of fabric he is wearing, and slightly faster than her own. Shifting herself a little until she is settled yet more comfortably against him, she closes her eyes and savors the sensation of the firm beating of his heart.

Lying against him like that, there are no more worries, no more fears. There's only reassurance and safety and quietness, only incredibly soft fabric and a warm, protective embrace... only _him_.

She only becomes aware that she must have been dozing off when he shakes her shoulder lightly, drawing her back from the sleep that was overtaking her.

It takes her only a moment to gather her bearings, to recall everything that has happened throughout the evening. It's an utter delight to be able to remember, even though it's only such a short amount of time.

"What is it?" she mutters, not understanding her why he has woken her, interrupting such peaceful perfection.

"You should go to back to your room, dear," he replies, just as softly. "It's very late and this isn't a suitable place to sleep."

"I'm so sorry," she cries out, fully realizing only then just where exactly she has fallen asleep. He may have enjoyed having his body support almost all of hers, but to have her on top of him for a considerable time, especially when he has nothing but the far from comfortable seat beneath him, is quite something else.

"Don't be," he says, stroking her hair to reassure her. "I can only hope that this was as pleasant for you as it was for me. But we can't stay here, sweetheart. You need to rest properly, especially given the exertions of the past few days."

She nods in agreement. She may not have done much more than being in bed most of the time - worrying, despairing - but she is indeed exhausted.

"You should go to bed to get a good night's rest."

She nods again and removes herself from his wonderful embrace with reluctance. Her limbs are sluggish with sleep and she is far from eager to move away from him. But she does so anyway, aware that they indeed can't comfortably spend the night like this, in the ever so quiet hallway.

It's only when she sits down next to him, on the seat where she has been for the majority of the evening, that it dawns on her that she has no idea which alternative he has in mind.

"It's probably best for you to get back to the room you've stayed in the past few days," he says, his dread tone indicating that he's as unhappy about it as she is.

"I don't think I want that."

It's not that she minds spending another night in the hospital as such; it's the look in his eyes telling her that he doesn't intend to stay with her which causes her reluctance.

She doesn't want to be separated from him again, not for a single minute, but he's already distancing himself from her. It's not that he's physically increasing the space between them, not yet at least, but she can see him all but stepping back as he clenches his hands, his expression hardening.

"It's only temporary," he says carefully, gauging her reaction. She balks at the notion of having to stay in the hospital room, not quite her cell in the basement but still a prison of sorts, especially when he isn't there with her.

But he listens to her, doesn't order her, not even for her supposed own good. For now at least, that's good enough for her, preventing her from panicking at the notion of having to go back to a hospital room, all alone once more.

"Only until we can make other arrangements."

"Like what?"

Much as she dreads the possibility of being separated from him again, if only for a few hours, she is intrigued by the options that might be open to them soon.

She hasn't had the chance to think about this during the past hours, but she's curious indeed about the places where she might stay once she is finally free from the hospital... although there's only one that holds her particular interest.

"You have an apartment of your own, above the library. You've got friends. You don't remember them, but they'll be happy to help you. There's miss Lucas, for example. She and her grandmother run an inn in the town. I'm sure they'd be delighted to give you a place to stay for the time being."

Much as she's convinced now that her life hasn't only been what she always presumed, she still can't quite imagine herself actually living anywhere. The mere idea of having friends is still almost impossible, especially because she already has him. Having others who care about her, who might support her, is almost too much to take in.

"It sounds lovely," she replies, slightly uncertain.

'Lovely' hardly begins to cover the sheer luxury of having a place to live. To have a space which is hers and where she can do as she pleases, without being watched against her will. Better still is the reminder that there are people out there who she can rely on, that she isn't all alone in the world any longer, even if it weren't for the wonderful man at her side.

And still... it's not what she was hoping for.

"You think I should go back to my apartment?"

The last word is foreign on her tongue, and not just because such a place is so far from anything she imagined for herself during all the empty years.

She feels almost guilty for it, but she can't help but think that this isn't the place where she would like to go.

She supposes that she can manage living on her own - she has already managed so much on this day alone. Besides, being independent has been a dream during every day and night she was locked up.

Still, now that this kind of craved freedom is presented to her, she finds that having her own space and schedule, no one to interfere with her life, is not what she wants any longer.

"You could do that, yes," he says, sounding just as reluctant as she feels. She doesn't fail to notice that he lingers on the word 'could' for a bit longer than seems necessary.

Probably it is silly of her to think so, but she can't help but expect something... more. For as long as she has known him - although that may not nearly be as long as he has known her - he has persuaded her of his affection for her, his love, of his desire to spend his life with her... to never leave her out of his sight again. She can't imagine that he truly wishes to live apart from her.

And yet, she has learned that it didn't end well when she lived with him in this world for only a few weeks. She can't rule out that he's afraid that this will happen again... or that he doesn't _want_ to share his home with her, not wanting her to remind him of the woman who she isn't.

"Is there anything else I _could_ do?" she questions, purposefully making the same emphasis as he just did. Whatever she may have thought or feared in the course of the evening, her heart knows that he wants to be with her as much as she wants to be with him. She doesn't allow herself to linger on her doubts, not ever again.

"My house," he says, speaking softly and lowering his gaze again, as if not wanting to actually present that option to her. "You've got a room there, I left it exactly the way it was after you..."

It would be easy to mistake his reluctance for reject. Now that she has gotten to know him like this however, it's clear to her that his hesitation is due to fear of making her uncomfortable.

"My house is at your disposal. You're very much welcome there, but I understand if you prefer not to..."

"I would love to come live with you," she says, smiling broadly as he offers exactly what she hoped he would.

"You do?"

It pains her, it truly does, to find that he doubts her longing to be with him even know. She dreads to think yet more what could have caused him to be like this.

"Yes," she simply says, "I would love to live with you."

"I... I didn't dare hope you'd actually want that."

"I do. Very much so."

There must have been something in her expression, something in her voice, that finally persuades him of her willingness – of her _eagerness –_ to share his home... to _live_ with him.

Then again, it's not as if she actually has any experience with such things, or any knowledge on how to make this work for either of them.

"Still, I don't know what it was like when we lived together. I don't know what it _can_ be like."

"The past mostly showed what it shouldn't be like. What _I_ shouldn't be like," he says, tracing the back of his fingers of both his hands along her cheeks ever so tenderly. "We'll have to find a way together."

"I think we will," she simply replies, filled with a certainty that's as strong as it is surprising.

They may not know exactly how to achieve the happiness they are craving, but both of them are quite desperate to try. So far, he has been brave when she was not, and she has been strong when he was not. Between the two of them, making their most unusual relationship work may not be all that impossible after all.


	17. Chapter 17

"I'm starting to believe that we can do that, Belle, that we can find a way to be together. It's just that..."

"What?" she urges him gently, having learned already that it's so very important to talk about everything, no matter how seemingly unimportant or unmanageable.

"I'm a difficult man to love," he mutters. He withdraws his hand, breaking the physical connection between them. He has said it before, almost to her bewilderment, but now that she has gotten to know him a lot more, she's beginning to see what he is referring to. "I'm not always a good man. I _try_ , Belle, I really do, but I keep on disappointing you. You keep being hurt because of my actions. I can't stand it, but I can't assure you that it won't happen again."

"You don't need to. I don't think anyone can genuinely promise something like that."

He's staring at her, familiarly eager yet fearful and _hopeful._ It persuades her only more that any risk she may take by being with him, by _loving_ him, is more than worth it.

Yet, she has far from forgotten about the darkness within him. The man who has declared that he would do anything to protect her, who _cherishes_ her, is the same one who viciously manipulates others and who badly hurt her own father.

"Do you do your best to be a good man?"

" _Yes_. For you Belle, anything for you. But I can't do it alone... not without you."

"Don't you think it should be enough?" she asks, the question directed at both him and herself. "Doing your best? You can't do more than that, or can you?"

"I suppose not," he hesitantly agrees, not breaking his intent scrutiny of her. "But I'd rather die than fail you again."

"Don't say that. Don't... don't say those things, especially not because of me."

"But it's true," he mutters, lowering his gaze after all. "When I say I'd do anything for you, I mean it."

She doesn't quite know what to say to that and settles for looking at him instead. The power he gives her over him – over _everything –_ is mesmerizing and terrifying at the same time.

Although there is a forbidden appeal to having access to such powers, especially after having none at all for far too long, there isn't a single part of her which might like to take advantage of his affections for her in such a way.

"You don't have to face this alone. You _are_ not alone, Rumple," she says, much rather focusing on his attempt to tame the darker side of him, to overcome his tendency to hurt anyone around him, and especially himself. "As I said before, I'd love to come live with you."

"Yes," he replies, nodding almost furiously. "You can move straight back into your old room... or any room you'd like. Whenever you like."

"I'd love to come as soon as possible," she beams, almost jumping off the seat in her excitement. She can already see her new life – _their_ life - right in front of her.

"I'll arrange for your release tomorrow, then," he replies, returning her smile with an equally broad one of his own.

"Tomorrow?" she echoes, her smile fading. He implied before that she would have to spend at least one more night in the hospital, but surely that won't be necessary any longer now that he offers her an already prepared room in his house? "I thought..."

"It's for the best," he says, doubtlessly aware of her disappointment. "You know now that there are a lot of people here who want to hurt us. They'll use anything they can to separate us. I won't want to help them with that. If we wait for tomorrow, we can officially arrange for your release from here. That way, no one will be able to claim later on that either of us did something wrong when you left here. There'll be nothing to use against us in at least this regard."

She is grateful for his consideration; she wouldn't have thought of this herself. Still, she isn't looking forward at all to staying another night in the very building where she has known such miserable endlessness, even now that she has such wonderful prospects ahead of her.

"I'll make you as comfortable as you can be. I'll make sure you're safe, truly safe. My magic will continue to protect you when I'm gone."

"You're leaving?" she cries out, intuitively clutching his suit jacket, as if making sure that way that he won't disappear from beneath her very eyes. "Surely you aren't leaving?"

"You don't want me to?" he asks, more contemplative than surprised. "Just for one night?"

"Haven't you learned anything since we started talking?" she asks, tenderly exasperated. "I don't want to be apart from you ever again, no matter for how shortly."

"I... I didn't mean it like that. I just supposed that it would be for the best if I..."

He just looks at her then, his words faltering, as if he still can't quite believe that she's real, not even after all this time.

"You really mean it, don't you?" he asks, almost sounding as if all his dreams have come true but that he has no idea what to do now. "You really like staying with me... _being_ with me."

"Yes," she says, squaring her shoulders. "I really don't want you to go, Rumple. I've been alone for so long... but you know it's not just that. It's _you_. I don't want to be without you."

"I really think it would be best if you were to stay here one more night."

She is beginning to imagine that they might have more trouble communicating in the future than she suspected after this evening. It has become surprisingly easy to talk to him, but at the same time, she finds it difficult to disagree with him when he looks at her like this, all lost and longing. For all the cunning she has sensed within him, she is quite certain that he isn't aware that he has this effect on her.

Still, she isn't going to be swayed so easily, not anymore. They won't stop this conversation until they have reached an outcome which is acceptable for both of them.

"I wish you would stay. Those beds aren't all that pleasant I suppose, not compared to what you must be used to, but there are plenty of them. I'm sure that you could do something, with magic, to make them as comfortable as you'd like. You don't even have to stay in this room, if you don't want to. Just don't leave me here, Rumple. Not here, not with these people. Not without _you_."

"I'd love to stay. Really, I wish I could. I don't want to leave you out of my sight ever again... I don't want to let go of you, no matter how shortly. But I really think this is for the best. Please, hear me out, sweetheart."

"Of course," she says, calmer already and curious to what he has to say. His announcement shocked her to the extent that she almost forgot that, if anything, he's only more desperate for the two of them to be together than she is herself.

"You have to stay here until tomorrow morning before you can officially leave. In the mean time, I'd like you to get as much rest as you can. Mostly, I would like you to think carefully of the future, to determine what _you_ want. There's nothing I'd rather have than you coming home tomorrow, to be together again. But there are other choices you can make."

His sadness is almost tangible then, but she is only more convinced of her connection with him, of her desire to be with him. As he reminds her that there are other choices that she can make, she knows that he truly has her best interest at heart.

"Maybe you want to live on your own for a while, or perhaps you'd like to stay with friends. I'd like you to thoroughly consider all alternatives, and ask yourself what it is that you want the most. I don't want to influence you when you do so, because the decisions has to be yours and yours alone. I don't ever want you to regret your decision to come with me if you do so. I don't want to pressure you in any way. This decision is yours and yours alone."

His reasoning makes her only more determined to come with him, but she supposes that this is not the right moment to inform him that she wants to be with him because, among others, he doesn't force her to do so and leaves the choice entirely in her own hands. He influences her by _not_ wanting to have any impact on her decision.

"A single night," she says instead, needing to be absolutely sure that he only intends for them to be apart for the night to come. "Only tonight."

"Only tonight," he repeats solemnly, his tone making only more clear that he isn't the only one who is reluctant to be separated from one another, no matter how shortly.

It sounds reasonable, in a way, and after so long of having no choice in anything whatsoever, it means so much that he does this for her. Still, despite having been all alone for so long, this evening has made her so very fond and used of his company, that she doesn't quite know how she'll be able to get any rest at all if she were to be separated from him again.

"Could you come back, earlier, if I... need you?"

"Of course," he says, his face expressing his joy upon hearing the last two words. "I live only a few miles from here. I can get back here within a few minutes. And if it's very urgent... well, I _am_ a sorcerer."

'Miles' and 'minutes' don't mean anything to her. As _bizarre_ as the second half of his response might have seemed before, she is now reassured by it.

"But how would you know when I want you to come back? Can magic do that?"

She doesn't really doubt that - she's quite sure by now that there are few things which magic _can't_ do - but she wouldn't know how, just like she doesn't understand the small boxes that she's seen people talking into, apparently speaking to someone who isn't there.

"We could... keep an eye on one another, as it were."

"We could?" she asks, not caring that she probably sounds almost desperate.

"Yes. It's... it might be better if we were to be completely separated for a few hours, but I must admit that I dread being away from you entirely... of not being able to look at you."

"Could we prevent that?"

"Let's take a closer look at that mirror," he says, giving her another of those small, precious smiles.

Ignoring the flutter of something unfamiliar inside of her, she picks up the mirror which he gave her earlier and takes a good look at it. It appears to be exactly the same as before, causing her to look back at him and raise a questioning eyebrow.

"We'll be needing two of them."

This time, she doesn't have to ask how he might achieve such a seemingly impossible feat. She simply watches with fascination - now that's something she supposes will never change - as he conjures a second mirror. The one which appears in his hand looks identical to the one she is already holding.

He mutters something, a spell she presumes, and there's some sort of light enveloping the two mirrors. It disappears within seconds, just like the purple mist has done so far, and he holds the mirror which he conjured as if he is inspecting his reflection.

She doesn't look away from him, eagerly watching him. She has grown very fond of doing so, just for the sake of it, but especially now that he's doing something which will somehow allow them to communicate with the aid of the two mirrors.

He smiles a little as he watches the mirror's glass, his lips twitching in the way they have so far only done when his gaze is directed at her. Wondering whether he seems something amusing of sorts in the mirror, she glares down to check her own.

She gasps in surprise when she comes face to face with _him_ and realizes that he probably can see her in the mirror which he created for himself.

"How..."

"It's a simple enchantment," he says, sounding quite pleased about it nonetheless. "A connection between the two mirrors."

Her gaze is locked on the glass in front of her, watching in delighted bewilderment when she sees him speak, despite not looking at the physically present version of him.

"I can't hear you, though," she says, realizing that she hears him only once, despite being able to see two of him. She doesn't hear her own voice in twofold either.

"There is a spell for that as well. But I think it's better not to use it. This is merely intended for us to be able to continue looking at each other, to make sure that you are all right while you stay here. I really want you to think tonight of what you want for yourself for the future, Belle. After tonight, you can talk as much to me as you'd like, for as long as you'd want to."

Much as she'd love to continue talking to him right now, tonight of all nights, she nods her head in agreement. She'd really like to speak to him even as he has left the hospital, preferably until either of them falls asleep, but she supposes that this is indeed for the best.

She can't imagine that she'll change her mind, but some quiet will probably indeed do her good. If only to make her as rested as she can be for the day to come - for the whole new life ahead of her.


	18. Chapter 18

"Will we keep the mirrors with us throughout the night?" she asks, taking in the identical objects with unceasing fascination "And how do they work?"

"You can keep them on the nightstand, if you like, or keep it with you, in..."

He shakes his head, looking away from her for the briefest moment, as if he doesn't want to think of her in bed with the mirror right next to her while the two of them are able to watch one another. She most certainly does want to think of just that.

"The mirror won't break, not by non-magical means at least, so don't be afraid of that. But it's probably best to keep it on a table next to your bed, so it won't fall or turn over accidentally. If that happens, we won't be able to see one another anymore. If you don't _want_ to see me anymore, you can always put the mirror with the glass-side on the table. The connection remains intact, but I won't be able to see you anymore, or you me."

She shakes her head at the last instruction, wondering how he can even think like that. She appreciates his never-ending concern, she definitely does, but it pains her that he still thinks that she would want to break away from him like that.

He smiles sadly at her reaction, brushing his hand against hers for just a moment to show that he doesn't presume either that such an end of their communication will be required.

"I've kept you once against your will, Belle. That will never, ever happen again."

He continues to speak before she can either thank him for his consideration or ask him just when he kept her against her will. From what he told her, it sounded like she has always been willing to stay with him.

"If you knock on the glass as if it is a window, I will be notified," he says, doing so on his own mirror. "I'll come for you then as soon as I'm able."

She accepts his far from subtle change of topic, sensing that that neither of them are ready to discuss just how unwilling her stay with him has been.

Instead, she focuses on the mirror in her hands, finding that the glass is projecting flashes of red, all but already screaming 'danger' before it begins to create an increasingly loud sound, reminding her a bit of the alarm bell she heard in her cell every once in a while.

"If you knock again, it stops," he says, doing just that.

"I understand."

The picture in front of her becomes calm again, the noise ending immediately. It's just him in the glass once more then, ignoring his own mirror and looking straight at her. He loses hardly any of the strength of his presence when it's just this image of him, but it's somewhat easier to look at him then, when - in a way – his intent gaze isn't focused on her.

She smiles fondly at the image of him, so solemn and beautiful and hopeful, unconsciously brushing her fingers against the part of his reflection where a strand of hair falls over his eyes.

Naturally, it doesn't cause the strand to curl around his ear like it would it she were to do it for real. Then again, the concepts of 'real' and 'unreal' are blurring, but for once it's not a bad thing.

Only as he gasps she becomes aware that she's touching the mirror where it reflects him, causing her to withdraw her fingers abruptly.

"I didn't mean to start the alarm," she says hurriedly, belatedly realizing that the glass of the mirror is still calm and that there are no noises either.

"You didn't, sweetheart. That only happens when you knock."

"But then what..." she tries, wondering what caused him to react to her touch of the glass. "Did you _feel_ that?"

"No, I didn't. I just..."

"You what?" she urges, ever so gently.

She doesn't need to recognize his faltering speech as embarrassment, his attempt to hide behind the curtain of hair which falls around his face giving him away already.

"I imagined that I could feel it."

"Oh."

She regards him, then shrugs, smiling again. Really, there is no reason for her not to do whatever she wants, not when it's regarding him... not anymore.

"Well then. You don't have to imagine, Rumple."

Doing exactly as she did when she was focused on the image of him in her mirror, she reaches for him. Slowly, lovingly, she brushes his hair around the curve of his ear. She sighs happily when his eyes flutter closed, as he shows himself in all his vulnerability to her once more, tilting his head and pressing his lips against her palm.

They remain like that for a long moment. But then he withdraws, giving her an apologetic smile.

"It's getting truly late. Let's get you to your room."

She nods her agreement, exhaustion starting to catch up with her. Today's events have been taxing to say the least. By now she is tired to the extent that she's certain that sleep will come for her right after she'll lie down.

She stands up, making sure that his coat won't fall off her shoulders. She finds the muscles of her legs sore with the disuse of the past evening. She winces, wondering how _he_ must feel. Before he can object, she leans down and takes his cane from the ground, offering it to him.

He takes it from her, but lingers before getting up. She doesn't dare imagine just how much his leg might hurt now, how much damage it has suffered, and he right along with it.

"Let me help you," she says, offering him her hand.

"Thank you," he says, not quite looking at her but taking the provided help immediately. She takes both their mirrors and places them on the table next to the chairs which they have occupied for the majority of the evening, along with the other objects that have gathered there in that time.

She all but pulls him on his feet as soon as both her hands are free. She barely holds back a gasp at the look of discomfort on his face when he places his weight on his bad leg, as if to test the limb.

"Lean on me," she urges, wrapping her arm around his waist in an attempt to help him take weight off his injured leg.

There's warmth, so much of it, when she touches him like this. It's as mesmerizing as it was the first time she touched him, but this _is_ the first time that her arm is across his waist like this, her hand holding onto him just above his hip. Despite the various layers of fabric between them, she is quite certain that she can feel his muscles working beneath her.

He places his arm around her shoulder in return, groaning when they take a tentative step together. She wonders whether he can use magic to decrease his pain, but she supposes that there must be a very good reason why he doesn't. She'll ask him about it, later.

They eventually reach the room where she has been the past few days, the distance so much longer now that he is struggling at her side. Still, she can't help but have a sense of gratitude for having the chance to help _him_ for a chance - and, most of all, that he lets her.

"Do you want to sit down?" she asks, gesturing at the chair which is next to her bed.

"I'd certainly like to, but I'd better stay on my feet for at least a few minutes if I want to be able to go home tonight."

Tempting as it is to keep him right here, at her side, she knows by now how important it is for him to let her gather her thoughts, alone, until he comes back in the morning.

"I'm going to retrieve our things," she says, making a gesture towards the hallway with her head. "Will you be all right here?"

"I will be, thank you Belle."

She lets go of his waist carefully, only stepping away from him after a few seconds. Wanting to be away from him for as little time as possible, she races back into the hallway. She smiles in delight when her legs don't protest in the slightest at the seemingly unusual activity.

Reaching the small table next to the various seats, she carefully gathers the repaired cup, the two mirrors, the hair brush and the rose into her hands.

When she returns in the room, he is walking up and down the length of it, his expression somewhat less tight and his movements slightly less strained than before. The additional movements must make it easier for him to walk and she's grateful for it.

She leaves him be for a moment, giving him the chance to calmly regain control over his limbs as she regards the interior of the room where she has spend her time the past few days.

It seemed so much, earlier, in comparison to the bleak cell she has been in until now. But with the promises of a room of her own or maybe even sharing one with him, of a _home_ , she can't help but be disappointed with the white walls and gray curtains, the lack of color of her worn bedclothes and all the furniture .

There's at least something she can do about that. Her spirits lifting already, she lovingly places the personal items she is still holding on her nightstand. She gives the second mirror to him, her fascination the same as before when he casually envelops it in another cloud of purple smoke, doubtlessly to send it to his home, ahead of him.

"It's not much, is it?" he remarks, nodding at the bed while shaking his head in disapproval.

"It's much better than what I had," she replies, knowing it to be true in between memories of nothing and the prospect of everything.

"Indeed. But it won't do, don't you think?"

"Well, it's better than what I'm used to, and it's only for a single night and..."

"Will you let me make it better? Please, Belle?"

She is in favor of anything that might make the room any less unpleasant and impersonal, but his request is particularly difficult to refuse when he's looking at her like this, as if she would do _him_ a huge favor by letting her do this for him.

"Of course."

Her earlier tiredness is long forgotten when it's becoming clearer yet just how willing he is to do anything to help her - to make her _happy_ – while she isn't even exactly who he wants her to be.

Then again, for quite some time she has almost lost awareness that she isn't who she should be, that she can't actually remember her past. Forgetting turns out to be not such a bad thing after all when the forgetting is what she doesn't remember.

If the way he is standing next to her is any indication, enthusiastic and almost mischievous despite his pain, she is quite certain that the same goes for him.

She already expected him to use magic, to do _something_ to brighten up the room, yet she is taken by surprise when there's more of the purple substance than she has seen all night combined - much more.

When it clears, her mouth falls open in joyful shock, and she needs to blink several times to make sure that her eyes aren't playing tricks on her.

There's a bed in front of her, but it couldn't differ more from the ones she has slept in before. There is still a world of difference between the thin mattress atop the heightened, unyielding part of the cell and the actual bed she could use when she was out of the basement, but _this_ is something else entirely.

It's at least twice as big as the two beds she's used to, but that's hardly the most major difference. This one is made from wood instead of the cold, hard metal she has known so far, and there are bedclothes on them which actually appear to be very pleasant, both soft and warm. They look valuable but out of place, just like the bed as a whole does, beyond the sight of such gorgeous furniture in the bleak, impersonal hospital room.

Turning back to him, the not completely concealed expectation on his features is telling her that he wants her to say something without having to ask for it. He must be wondering, _hoping_ , that the bed he conjured has some sort of meaning for her.

"Is this mine?" she asks, still finding the notion of her owning anything so hard to grasp after a lifetime of not being allowed any possessions, not even the thin gown that used to cover her. "Or is it... ours?"

She knows by now that this man is her True Love and that they lived together. She doesn't know however what exactly happened between them during that time in this particular part of their relationship.

Still, she finds herself hoping that they indeed shared the bed. Whether she can remember it or not, it's lovely to at least know that the two of them have enjoyed such a thing together.


	19. Chapter 19

She can't take her eyes off the large, luxurious bed that her beloved just materialized for her. She could spend a long time admiring it, and she fully intends to, but she mostly wonders what role the bed played in her past – in _their_ past.

"This bed was yours; it has been for many years."

It gets less and less difficult to be unable to remember anything from before she lost her memories now that her True Love is here with her in the hospital. She may be incapable of recalling any of their shared history, but it's a lot more bearable when he tells her all she wants to know about it instead.

"This is the bed from your childhood bedroom, in your father's castle. You slept in it until the day you came with me. Although I know you can't remember it, I hope it'll bring you some comfort to sleep in it again tonight."

"I think it will," she says, marveling at this gesture. At the same time she struggles to understand how he brought it here, the bed so much larger than the items he made appear out of thin air by magic before.

It's obvious that he used magic again, but the things he has conjured for her so far are items which are not only a lot smaller than this, they were also already available in this world. From what she has understood from him, they are in a different world now than the one they came from... the one where this bed apparently comes from as well.

"It's not really anywhere here," he says, answering her unspoken question. "I've seen it once, and I re-created it from memory."

It's intriguing, it really is, to learn more of his magic, of the impossible things it can do. But the implication of his words is yet more interesting than what he is actually telling her.

"When did you see it?" she questions gently.

From what he told her before, she presumed that he wouldn't have been anywhere near the room where she slept in her childhood. She knows now how she abruptly left her father's castle to go with him as the caretaker of his estate, to secure the safety of her friends and family.

Surely, there wouldn't have been any reason for him to see her bedroom then, and he wouldn't have had the opportunity – and again, no reason for that matter – later on. And yet, he claims to have seen it. She can't determine of course with certainty whether the bed he conjured was actually hers, but there's no doubt in her mind in that regard.

"I saw your bed after Regina told me that you had died," he says reluctantly, once more not quite looking at her. "I was devastated when I thought you were dead. I was lost. And I didn't doubt her. Even when I questioned her, when I told her that she must be lying about you, I didn't truly doubt her. I am prone to think the worst, as you know, and this was no exception. To think that you had died because I had thrown you out, that my attempt to spare you from a life of misery with me had caused your death instead... it was exactly the sort of thing, the kind of _irony_ , that had followed me all my life."

She steps closer to him, laying her hands on his arms, hoping that the touch can ground him to the present, anchor him in the knowledge that she's as alive as he is.

"I went back to your father's lands eventually. Not to make sure there was proof of the story that Regina had told me. If only I had... I just wanted to see you one final time. Well, I couldn't _see_ you, of course not. But I wanted to see for myself what had happened to your... remains. I had to see, to _know_ , where you had ended up."

His sadness is almost tangible and tears well in her eyes too as she wonders what it must have been like for him to go looking for the location where he believed her body had been disposed of, to believe that he was responsible for her death.

"I sensed you, when I returned in disguise to the grounds of your father's castle, that you had been there. Something of you lingered there. It was so vague that it was barely noticeable, but we had lived together for quite some time and I... well, in my castle I spent a lot of time enjoying your nearness, just feeling the change in the air whenever you were around. It was easy to trace the source of something that once was you to a graveyard, just outside the castle's walls."

His head is bowed, his sorrow raw despite all the time that must have passed since that day. She tightens her hold on his arm, wishing that she would have been able to do the exact same thing during all the years they were forced to be apart, oblivious to the other's existence.

"I may never know how she had done it. Maybe Regina used your clothes, or a lock of your hair. She might have used an enchantment on another body. I suppose I don't want to know. It's too late for that."

He stares ahead, straight back into the past, his expression grim.

"I felt your presence there, in the darkest corner of that cemetery, somewhere at the end of a row of unmarked graves. There was no stone, no flowers, nothing to remind the world of the extraordinary woman who was buried there... or rather, who was supposed to rest there. Nothing to honor you."

His voice is almost emotionless and if it wouldn't be for everything she has learned about him throughout the past few hours, she wouldn't have known that this is the only way that he can tell her this. But now it's clear as glass to her that pretending towards himself that he isn't so deeply affected by these events, is the only way for him to think back on them and share them with her.

"Finding your grave, believing you to be dead... I... I _broke_. You brought joy back into my life... you gave me life itself back. But it died there, with you."

He shivers in her embrace and she wonders whether he ever truly recovered, even after finding out that he was deceived in such an excruciating way.

"I remember crying there. Calling out for you. Begging for you to come back. I believe I would have done just about anything to undo your death. Whether you would return to me or not, I wanted you alive... free and safe and happy, one way or another. Of course, nothing of that sort happened. Not then, at least."

Some of the tension leaves his shoulder as he gives her an ever so small smile.

"I woke up in the rain, lying in mud... in the dirt covering your supposed grave. I don't recall why I lost consciousness, if I exhausted myself or that I hoped that death would claim me as well, to be reunited with you in that way. I knew that I couldn't die because of my curse, that there were very few means to make an end to my life, and dying of exposure certainly wasn't one of them. But still... I _felt_ dead."

Caressing him as carefully as she can, she wishes that she knew a way to give him more strength, to help him through this. But there's nothing she can do except for listening to him and hoping that it'll bring him some relief to talk like this, probably for the very first time speaking aloud about this.

"I was cold. So very, very cold. I had been alone for a long time, but only when you were gone I realized... I was afraid, Belle. Of being without you. Of having to live without you. I was desperate for something, _anything_ to remind me of you, to hold on to you. Since I was next to the castle where you grew up... It was an awful idea, but I just _had_ to..."

He shakes his head, as if the memory of this - the shame of it - has been hunting him until this very day. In response, she tangles her hand in his hair, effectively stilling him.

"With my magic, it was very easy to find my way to your chamber, to get to the bedroom where you grew up. It was just as simple to make sure that no one detected me, that I could do as I pleased."

There's an apology in his eyes and she nods at him, encouraging him to tell whatever happened then, unpleasant as it might be.

"Your room looked like you had left it just a few minutes ago. There were opened books on the table, a nightgown at the edge of your bed, the sheets still pulled back... there was still a dent in your pillow. Your father must have ordered to have your room cleaned, but except from that leave it exactly as it was when you went with me. You had been gone for more than a year, you were _dead_ , but that room made it seem like you could still walk in at any moment."

He falters again and she tightens her hold on him, urging him to continue.

"I remember standing on the threshold, telling myself that I shouldn't do it. But I missed you so much and just daring to believe for just a moment that you might come back... I got rid of the dirt on myself and I used the exact same spell as I did here to make sure that no one would disturb me. There was a comfortable chair near the window, with a pile of books next to it. I imagined that you spent much reading time there, or just looking at the world outside, thinking."

It's a good thing that he is in her arms already, for the narration of his despair painfully reminds her of what it was like to live all alone in emptiness.

"I lit a fire in the hearth and conjured our tea set from my castle. I settled down in your chair and just sat there, letting myself pretend that you could come home at any moment, that you would sit down next to me and that you would tell me about your day. We would have tea together, just like we used to, but without having to pretend any longer that we aren't in love."

"But I never came home," she mutters, not needing to remember their past to know exactly where he is going with this.

"I stayed there for hours," he says, nodding. "I watched the sky turn dark, thinking how suitable it was. When you were gone... it was as if the sun was taken away from me. You are my light, Belle. You are my life."

He looks directly at her while talking, seemingly no longer afraid to address her like this, to declare his affection so openly.

"And I think you were mine. You most certainly are right now."

The way he smiles in response confirms for her just how right she is about that.

"It went completely dark eventually," he continues, as if he found yet more strength in her confirmation of their current closeness. "I hadn't slept since I sent you away, hadn't rested at all. Sitting there, surrounded by your things, by the life you once had... I couldn't pretend anymore that you would come back to me sooner or later. You were gone, _dead_ , and only because I had been so cruel, so _stupid_..."

"What happened?" she asks, finding that she's getting better and better at steering him tactfully away from his self-loathing and regret.

"Your bed was right there, on the other side of the room. I couldn't persuade myself any longer that there would be a day that you would use it again... that we might share it, that you would welcome me to stay with you throughout the night. To hold you, to... touch you. But I was _tired_ , so very tired. I felt that I couldn't go on any longer. Your bed was just a few steps away from where I was sitting and..."

"Go on," she breathes, fully intend to continue keeping his hesitation at bay.

"I slept in your bed," he breathes, looking away from her yet again, as if he is convinced that this admission will make an end to her current acceptance of him after all. "I lay down on your feather mattress, my head on your pillow, and pulled the blankets over me. I closed my eyes, being right where you spent most nights of your life, hoping that I would never have to open them again."

He swallows heavily, tightening his hold on her, having to reassure himself yet again of her nearness, of her forgiveness and sheer aliveness. He stares past her though, at a point somewhere behind her, lost in that long gone night once more.

Knowing only too well what it's like to be trapped like this, and not wanting either of them to be lost for only one more moment, she reaches for his face. She cups his cheek with her palm, guiding his gaze back to hers to bring him back to the present.

He smiles a little, and so does she, when he blinks a few times and refocuses his gaze, returning to the here and now, to _her._

The past and its cruelties can't be changed or made undone, but that isn't all that unbearable any longer now that they're together once more after all.


	20. Chapter 20

He swallows heavily, but his eyes are warm and hopeful once more as they remain on her. She relaxes right along with him, knowing that he isn't lost any longer in the memories that have haunted him for so long.

"I was convinced that I would feel only more guilt when I crawled into your bed," he says, continuing to explain why the bed from her childhood home is so familiar to him. "You may not have used it for about a year, but it was still _yours_... and it was the last of your possessions I'd ever thought to use myself, because it was so personal."

"But you didn't feel guilt," she concludes, studying him intently. "Or at least, you felt something else more strongly."

"Indeed. It was only in my own mind, of course, but there was some rightness in lying right where you had spent so many nights. The sheets and the pillows... they still smelled like you. Not to human senses perhaps, but I could pick up your lingering scent."

He pauses again, but only to move yet a bit more closer to her, inhaling deeply as he brushes the top of her head with his nose.

"If I focused enough, if I fooled myself enough, it was like you had simply left for your work in the morning and that you would return at any moment. I imagined, Belle. I could almost, _almost_ believe it. For you to come into the room, ready for bed. Wearing a lovely nightgown, your hair down... that you would just slide between the sheets, into my arms..."

He traces his knuckles over her cheek, barely touching her but reaching into her very soul. Covering his hand with her own, she locks her gaze with his, wanting him to _believe_ that his memories, real and legit as they are, are no more than that.

"It was the only comfort I had had in weeks. I allowed myself to give in to the illusion, to pretend as much as I could. With a spell I changed into my nightclothes and I gathered your pillows around me, holding the biggest one against me as if..."

He doesn't need to complete the sentence for her to understand that he clung to a pillow in an attempt to hold on. Not just to the memory of her, but to life itself; to find the will to keep going.

"I finally slept that night. And I dreamed. About the past, about my plans for the future. But I mostly dreamed about you. Not about what could have been, if it hadn't been for my stupidity and stubbornness, but about what did happen between us. The moments of happiness you gave me. Your faith in me, your kindness... your smiles."

She may have thought that she must have run out of tears throughout the time they have spent together this night, but yet more of the salty liquid gathers in her eyes as she imagines him in the very bed before her, burying his head in her pillows and surrounded by her sheets as if to escape from reality itself.

"It was far past noon when I woke again. I felt better. Much as I preferred to dwell on the guilt and sadness of losing you, dreaming about you like that made me realize that wasn't what you would have wanted. You always had such faith in me, such high hopes... I wanted to honor that as much as I could, for your sake. If that was the only thing I could do for you, then I would."

He looks at her, silently pleading, and she nods in approval. She isn't certain about what the woman who she once was might have thought of that, but _she_ definitely is glad that he didn't give up, if only because of the memory of her.

Then again, at this point, she's quite confident that she would have thought the same thing before she lost her memories.

"I'm so glad that I did, Belle. It was never easy. There was never a day that I didn't think of you, that I didn't long for you. Not a night without regret. But now that the years have passed, now that we are here, together again after all... it was worth it. It was all worth it."

He has never let go of her, by now doing something wonderfully lovely with his fingers at the back of her neck. He smiles a little and she knows that he's no longer touching her to remind himself that she is truly as alive as she appears to be; he simply caresses her like this because both of them enjoy such touches so very much.

"When I awoke in your bed, as alone as I had been the weeks before, I couldn't deny to myself any longer that you were never coming back. But I felt slightly better because I was rested and woke up surrounded by your things. I left quickly, but not before returning your room to the state it had been in before I arrived. I didn't feel any longer like I... tainted it."

"I think I would have understood," she says, wanting to make that as clear to him as she can. " _I_ do. I want you to take comfort in the things that I left. I would do exactly the same if it were the other way around."

"Let's hope it'll never come to that," he replies quietly, his features ever so grave. "And if it does... I hope there'll be a way for me to carry that burden for you instead."

It fills her with only more affection, yet also more sadness, to find that he would gladly bear all her sorrow and despair on his own shoulders.

"I think we've had enough misery for quite some time," she says, purposefully not giving him a direct answer.

"Indeed," he says, withdrawing his hands from her. "We might be in luck for once."

There's something in his voice telling her that he means it, that he's finally starting to see that their relationship, even now, isn't doomed per definition.

"We have to believe, Rumple. And we have to work for it. Maybe more than we did in the past."

"I know. We may have to fight. Maybe not only against those who try to keep us apart, but in my case also against ourselves. Against _myself_. I was afraid, sweetheart. Afraid to let you in, to be completely honest with you. Because I feared that you would be horrified by what you would find if I were to do that. But after the past few days... I truly don't want to be without you. It doesn't matter anymore if that means that I have to give up things, that I might have to be... weak."

"You'll never be weak when you share your fears and worries with people you trust." She doesn't know where that conviction is coming from, only that her heart tells her just how true those words are. "You'll only be stronger."

One moment they are standing opposite one another, the distance between them limited but most certainly there, and then she is fully enveloped by two strong arms, dragging her almost powerfully against her love's chest.

He has embraced her before, her mind filled with a number of such pleasant occurrences throughout the evening. But not earlier she has noticed just how strong he is, clinging to her as if he intends never to let go.

Maybe it's her words that have given him strength, or perhaps it's simply because he can reach easier for her now that they are standing next to one another. Either way, she holds on to him for all that she is worth, savoring the tight yet tender grip of his arms around her.

Her grasp on him is just as strong, her arms as tight around him as they can be and her fingers digging into his back. The strength she finds in her muscles is yet more proof that she has _lived_ instead of being locked up in the past few months.

"I'm not afraid anymore."

His words are little more than ragged breath against her neck, but they have her gasping, her heart leaping with joy. No matter the experiences he remembers, no matter the ones she does not, _this_ is what matters. Him, her, and this honesty between them... this courage.

She can't think of anything to say to this. Although she knows only of him what she has learned throughout the evening, she is aware how much it means for him to feel like this, and to share it with her.

But there are no words needed to confirm what they have accomplished, just by being together and talk, _really_ talk. She simply moves her finger into his hair, caressing his nape, to show him that she understands.

Because in the end - memories or not, magic or not - he is just a man and she is just a woman. He is no longer scared, and neither is she.

He moves into their embrace with every fiber of his being, sighing deeply against her in contentment, never loosening his hold on her.

She closes her eyes, snuggling against him, burying herself in the solidness of his frame, in the safety of his arms. Her head is right above his heart and she happily listens to its firm beat. Feeling it pulse in the same rhythm as her own, she marvels at being so very close to the source of his love for her.

He holds her like that for a wonderfully long time. But he draws back from her eventually, giving her a slightly chagrined smile.

"It's time for both of us to get some much needed rest."

She agrees with him, but that doesn't make it any easier to retreat from the wonderfulness of his embrace, as soothing as it is exciting.

Still, when he tucks a curl of hair behind her ear and lets his fingers brush against her neck for just a moment, it's clear that there's nothing to be reluctant about. She _is_ tired and his love for her won't end when he leaves her for this single night... far from it.

"Does the bed suffice?"

Glancing back at the luxurious four-poster that's right where her hospital bed used to be, she chuckles a little. It's both amusing and just a bit worrying that he could think that the bed might not meet her approval, never mind how out of place it is in the rest of the ever so empty and generally unpleasant room.

"It most certainly does."

Looking back at him, her smile falls. She would rather sleep in the hospital bed - or in her excuse of a bed in the cell in the basement, really - if that meant that she wouldn't have to be separated from him for the night. Knowing that he'll be back in the morning isn't nearly the same as having him right at her side throughout the night.

But she understands why he insists on leaving for now and she accepts that it's important for him that she spends one night on her own, just so she can consider everything that has happened between them before deciding, entirely on her own accord, that going with him is indeed truly what she wants.

"We won't share this bed tonight," he says, her sobered expression doubtlessly telling him exactly what she is thinking. "But we will after tonight, if that's what you'd like."

She nods pointedly, despite the notion that there are no words to persuade him that there's nothing she'd rather want than being with him. She supposes that only really living with him can do that, that actually spending their days together will be the only proof that such a thing is possible after all.

Then again, his determination not to pressure her into any decision only makes it easier to see that nothing could bring her as much happiness as being with him, and not just throughout the day.

He smiles a little, no doubt aware once more along which lines she is thinking.

"I'll relocate the bed to our house _when_ you come home... and I'll join you whenever you like me to."


	21. Chapter 21

She beams at him at the promise of a life together. When he tentatively mirrors her expression, as convinced of the brightness of their future as she is, her smile only widens.

But they haven't entirely reached that point of happiness together, not yet at least. Clearing his throat, he awkwardly gestures at the gown she is wearing, the only one she's had for – indeed - as long as she remembers.

She can still only vaguely recall the ruined clothes she wore when she was brought to the hospital, but she hasn't seen them since. Someone has probably thrown them away, not knowing what it would be like for her to see those items again, to touch them, to have tangible proof of the life she can't remember.

It's easy to forget now that it's mostly covered by his lovely coat, but the only clothes she has worn throughout her stay in the hospital are the rough, rather ill-fitting fabric that's she's wearing now.

"Do you have anything better to wear for the night, sweetheart?"

She shakes her head in denial, already knowing what his reaction will be. Just a while ago she would have been reluctant to ask him for anything. But now that she knows that he _enjoys_ indulging her, this hesitation has disappeared right after her initial fear and distrust of him.

This time, the burst of purple smoke turns out to reveal a white nightgown hanging over his arm, more gorgeous than she thought possible. It shouldn't really surprise her, not after everything he has done and shown her already, but she gasps in delight regardless when he hands her the almost impossibly soft fabric.

"It's _beautiful_ ," she breathes, holding the nightgown in front of her to admire it.

Taking in the long but snug looking gown with wide eyes, she reverently runs her fingers along the texture of it, softer than even the material of his shirt. "I wore this, didn't I? When I lived with you? I'm sure it was a gift from you as well."

"You did, and it was. And it is again."

"Thank you," she says, the loving look in his eyes meaning so much more to her than the dress itself ever could.

"Why don't you try it on?"

She's happy to take the gown and head for the small bathroom that he points out, despite the awareness that the sooner she'll be ready to go to sleep, the sooner he in all likelihood will leave.

But there's no avoiding the inevitable and besides, she looks forward to wearing the wonderful gown. She has no illusions that it might bring back any memories, but just wearing the lovely material - and being seen by him while she does so - is quite the incentive indeed.

She casts one more smile at him when she closes the door of the bathroom adjoining the hospital room behind her. There's no hesitation when she shuts the door and thus can't see him any longer, because she knows in her heart that he'll still be there when she returns, that this isn't a trick or make-believe in any way.

Fully intend on changing clothes as quickly as she can, she becomes aware only then that she still has his coat with her. Just like it has been throughout the majority of the evening, it's protectively wrapped around her, keeping her warm and comfortable.

She takes his coat off with some reluctance and hangs it carefully on one of the pegs on the door, lovingly running her hands over the black material. She's going to miss wearing the coat, the way it keeps her warm and still smells of him.

But the gown he provided her with now is as lovely, albeit in a different way, and at least this item of clothing used to actually belong to her. _Does_ belong, she reminds herself. Just because she doesn't remember doesn't make the gown any less hers, especially not now that he has given it to her again.

It's easy enough to get out of the sad excuse of a hospital gown she's wearing underneath the coat, goosebumps appearing on her skin in the chilly bathroom. It only makes her more eager to put on the nightgown she just received, but she finds that accomplishing this isn't such an easy task.

Much as she wants to, and beloved possession of her former self or not, it proves difficult to get into the gown. It has more fabric than she remembers wearing ever before, fits her body more tightly than any of the loose clothing she had to wear earlier, the material so much more delicate than she is used to. She treats it with the utmost care and patience, making sure to avoid ripping it or ruining in any other way accidentally.

Even when pulled over her head in what she supposes is the correct manner, she has trouble sliding the nightgown down her body and finding the right angle to put her arms where they are probably meant to go.

She doesn't get frustrated though, not with the very lovely material all around her. She happily fusses and fidgets, straightening and gently twisting the gown until it flows down her body the way she presumes it ought to.

It's not difficult to tell when she has managed to wear it correctly. When the hem finally flutters down, almost all the way to the floor, the previously seemingly overlarge gown fits around her like it was made just for her. Knowing her beloved as she does now, it doubtlessly is.

She giggles a bit at the sheer joy of wearing something infinitely more pleasant than any of the few hospital clothes she can remember wearing throughout the years. Although the material of her own nightgown almost fully covers her arms and legs alike, she has never felt less restricted in her movements, the fabric as soft and light as it is warm and solid.

Although the material is quite tight around her, at least much more so than she is used to, there is for as far as she can tell nothing indecent or unseemly about the dress. It shows considerably more of the shape of her waist and chest than the gown from the hospital did, but it covers almost as much of her skin. The collar of the gown isn't as high as the one she wore before, but not in a way that makes her uncomfortable.

That's not because she has seen women in seemingly scandalous clothing roaming the hospital, leading her to the believe that it's normal for females to dress as such in the real world. Her continued comfort is due to the realization that she wouldn't mind at all for him to see her like this. He may have seen her in such a state plenty of times before, possibly without a lot less fabric covering her, but she wouldn't feel unpleasant if he were to see _her –_ quite the contrary.

Throughout the past few days she has made sure to ignore the narrow but full length mirror next to the door of the bathroom, convinced that she were to feel only worse if her reflection would confirm the pathetic state she is in.

This time, she purposefully faces the glass.

She lets out a little cry of joy when she sees her reflection. Although she has nothing to directly compare this image to, it couldn't be clearer to her how much she has changed since she truly got to know him this evening.

It's not because she sees herself wearing the beautiful nightgown, fitting her – _suiting_ her - in a way she didn't know possible. It's because of the face that looks back at her in the mirror, _her_ face, although it might as well have been someone else's - the woman's who she ought to be.

But while dressed like this, she feels yet more that there might not necessarily be such a huge difference between the woman whom he remembers and the woman whom she can't recall.

She feels the joy and confidence of the woman who is reflected in the mirror, because she _is_ happy for the first time.

Already there is a hint of color on her cheeks, some shine already returned to her formerly limp, dull hair. There's a sparkle in her eyes that has never been there before, a strength in her posture which she couldn't have imagined earlier.

She feels yet better when she can take a proper look at the braid in her hair, the one he made with gentle, assuring fingers which are clearly accustomed to the task.

She looks exactly like the woman who she must have been before her memories were taken from her, when she was strong and brave... _loved_.

Not weighed down by the slightest of doubt that he might not feel the same way, she opens the door back to the room where he is waiting for her. Leaving the hospital gown right where she left it, she fondly picks up his discarded coat to take back with her.

There were a few things she expected when she returned to him, all of them closely related to the joy he'd hopefully experience upon seeing her like this again. But the way his jaw almost drops when he lays his eyes on her again certainly wasn't one of them.

"What's wrong?" she asks, the old insecurity returning much more quickly to her than she would have liked. She doesn't have a clue what might have caused his obvious surprise, only that it probably won't be a good thing.

After all, the evening has been very good so far and he has never looked at her remotely like this.

She glances down at herself, wondering what could possibly have caused his reaction. She supposes that she's wearing the dress correctly, if only because the way the fabric is wrapped around her feels completely right. But maybe she isn't dressed like she used to be after all, having made some sort of mistake when pulling it on in her ignorance of her old life.

Considering that possibility, she runs her hands down her limbs, making sure that the material is covering her just as much as it did when she looked at her reflection in the mirror. She mentally confirms once more that this gown leaves hardly anything more bare than her previous clothes, even when his jacket was still on her shoulders.

But even if the gown _were_ to be indecent, surely he would have known in advance... He wouldn't appear to be so very surprised, looking at her as if... well, she can't exactly define it.

The same goes for the way her own body reacts when his gaze lingers for just a fraction of a second on her chest.

For the first time since she has been in the hospital, for the first time since she can remember, she wonders if she actually needs medical help. Her heart is doing strange things, beating so much faster all of a sudden. She can't breathe properly any longer and that unfamiliar heat is rising within her again, just like when they touched in the hallway.

"You look lovely," he breathes, not sounding quite right either. His voice is hoarse again, like it was when she kissed his face, anywhere but his lips.

Judging from the way his chest is heaving beneath all the layers of fabric he wears, he has trouble breathing too. At this point she isn't certain any longer that the redness on his cheeks is only her imagination.

But then he abruptly looks away and those strange, rather alarming feelings gradually pass before she can discover what all of this could possibly mean. He clears his throat and appears to return to his normal state as well.

"Thank you," she murmurs, at last saying the first thing that came to her mind when he gave her the beautiful and obviously sincere compliment.

There's still a hint of redness on his cheeks and judging from the heat in her own face, the same goes for her.

There's so much of their past she doesn't know yet and at least just as much of the present of which she doesn't know what it means.

It doesn't bother her nearly as much as it did before.

She may not yet be aware of everything that has happened between them or even understand what's going on exactly between them right now, but she is convinced that she will eventually find out everything.

With his help, that will probably be sooner rather than later.

And in case it won't be... well, as long as she has him, she doesn't mind either way.


	22. Chapter 22

"Do you have any good memories of me wearing this nightgown?" she asks quietly, breaking the heavy silence that has fallen.

He still looks at her like he did when she just came out of the bathroom while wearing the nightgown he gave her, his expression suggesting that he can barely believe what he's seeing.

Conversation came so easy to them before, but now that she has stepped out wearing this particular gown he seems to have run out of things to say. By referring back to their former life together she hopes to get him to talk again, simply because she enjoys conversing with him so very much.

But more than that, she is both slightly nervous and beyond intrigued by the smothering glance he just cast at her. She already knows just how very close the two of them were emotionally, but by now she's beginning to wonder for the first time just how much they experienced together physically.

Her question might lead him to reveal something about the more... carnal aspects of their relationship. She wouldn't dare ask him whether he has good memories of her _not_ wearing the gown - of him slowly pulling it off her, caressing each area of skin he reveals - not yet, anyway. But this way, she might get him to give some insight into the physical aspect of their relationship without acutely mortifying either of them.

"I've never actually seen you wearing it before," he says, focusing his gaze firmly on her modestly covered knees.

"You didn't?"

Every time she thinks to be able to conclude something from their shared past, she turns out to be wrong. It might have frustrated her, but it doesn't nearly as much as she might have thought before she got to know him again. It's a joy for her to find out more and more about their relationship, the truth she uncovers usually yet better than the assumptions she made.

At the same time, she is baffled to find that he has never seen her in her nightclothes - not these, at least. They have been together for quite some time, she knows that now, and they were in love. There seems to be a large difference between what he has told her before and what he is telling her now... and what she is feeling herself.

"When you lived in my castle, you wore this gown to sleep in, in your bedchamber," he says, offering the explanation her expression no doubt shows she wishes for. "I was never there, so I never saw you wearing it."

"What about this world?" she asks, something which she might describe as regret welling up inside of her as it dawns on her what exactly he is telling her, what she can read between the lines.

Whatever the reasons might have been, it seems that they never stayed together at night in the other world. Whether that wouldn't have been acceptable in that world or not, she wouldn't ever want to be separated from him, especially not in the dark of night.

It saddens her greatly that they didn't share this sort of nearness in the past, but he smiles before the fear develops that it has been exactly the same in the world where they are now.

"I couldn't bear to let you out of my sight when you came back to me here. I stayed with you at night, sweetheart. You wouldn't have it any other way."

She sighs a little in relief, very glad that they stayed together at night in this world at least, that she herself had insisted upon it.

The effect is gone however when she recalls just how little time they got to spent together in this world to begin with. Similarly, she barely dares consider what it must have been like for him to mostly stay away from her during the past few days, hearing how difficult it already was for him to be separated from her when she was both mentally and physically in good health.

"Watching you sleep next to me on your bed... those are some of my most precious memories."

Maybe she should feel better at hearing how much it meant to him to be with her at night, but the way he describes these cherished moments only increases her concern. She doesn't need to ask in order to know that he would only come into the room, not to mention onto the bed, when he was ensured that she was covered by blankets.

"Are you uncomfortable with that, Belle? Do you regret we did that? That _I_ did that?" His eyes pleading with her, she grasps for something to say, anything to persuade him that she isn't upset... or at least, not for the reason he thinks. The realization that he jumped to this conclusion after only the briefest moments of silence from her isn't helping in the slightest. "Nothing happened beyond that. I didn't touch you... I stayed on top of the covers. I _knew_ that there would come a day that you would regret it if we..."

She has never imagined herself kissing someone just to shut them up, to attempt to make an end to their doubt that way. But if it weren't for her determination for their first kiss to be one of nothing but love and affection, she would do so right now.

"One day, you are going to _hold_ me when _we_ sleep, both of us _in_ bed... in _our_ bed," she says, his shocked yet ever so hopeful expression making very clear to her that all her unpleasant assumptions are as true as she feared them to be. "Right now, I only want to know why we haven't been doing so all along."

The more she learns of their relationship, or by now almost more so the lack thereof, the more confused she becomes. The sooner he can explain to her why they weren't truly together, the quicker they might be able to actually achieve exactly that after all.

"You... it wouldn't have been right, sweetheart. You were just freed from the hospital. There was so much you had to get used to in this world. Even I was so much different than I was in our world... the way I looked, even. I wanted you to get used to all that before..."

He trails off, shaking his head, avoiding her gaze. Much as it pains her to see it, it doesn't surprise her any longer that he's still denying some parts of their past relationship towards himself.

But this time, he doesn't need her interruption to make an attempt at sharing something more closely resembling the truth with her.

"I wouldn't have been able to help myself," he cries out, his voice raising, suddenly harsh. The rest of his body joins his arms as he makes a gesture of helplessness. "To be in bed with you, to reach out for you and _touch_ you... I'm a weak man, Belle. I'm stronger when I'm with you, because you make me want to be the best I can be, but..."

He shakes his head again, as if the strength she gives him isn't nearly enough.

"But I'm not as good as you'd like me to be. You never wanted to believe it... _I_ didn't want to believe it. But I can't pretend to be anything that I'm not... not with you. I can't act like I can be the man who you might deserve."

"That's not true, and you know it."

She has never seen a wounded animal, trapped in a corner. Not for as far as she knows, at least. But watching him like this, it isn't difficult at all to imagine what such a terrified, desperate creature might be like.

"It's... not entirely true. But believe me, sweetheart, being so near to you would have led me to... want things. Things that neither of us are ready for."

If nothing else, the way he keeps his distance from her, even now, furthers her belief that he would never do anything against her will.

Either way, she _knows_ that it's not his fear of taking their relationship too far which kept him away from her at night.

"If it's not entirely true, as you say, then what was it? Why didn't you come into bed with me? Why didn't you just hold me?"

She would really, really like to ask him as well what made him so utterly convinced that his touch wasn't welcome, whether she herself had given any indication of that, or whether that too was more based on the fears in his mind than the realities of their true lives.

But she can't fight two battles at a time. Just as has been the case in most of their conversation so far, she focuses on what seems most important to her, pressing as gently and carefully as she can to reveal to both of them why he didn't seek her nearness at night when the two of them had the chance to do so.

He doesn't reply for a long time, just keeps his gaze away from hers, his fists clenched at his sides. It might look like he doesn't plan to answer her, but she can see the struggle that his body only barely betrays.

"Because I am afraid," he says at length, looking up to meet her eyes at last. "Because I'm terrified that you don't want me to touch you. That I'll make you uncomfortable. I can't bear you moving away from my touch. Or worse, for you to be afraid to tell me that you don't want me to touch you... that you don't want _me_. Frightening you again... I can't live with that."

"So you'd rather not touch me at all."

He nods, almost as miserable as he was when she joined him with the shards of the by now repaired cup. It seems like a lifetime ago.

He doesn't break his gaze away from her, allowing her to see how difficult it is for him to tell her this, to openly express how afraid he was to seek her nearness. Maybe, it's the first time that he has admitted this to himself as well.

"I don't want it to be like that any longer," she says, approaching him to close the physical distance that has been growing between them. "If anything doesn't feel right, we shouldn't try to do it anyway. But I think that we should talk about it, until it _does_ feel right. We probably shouldn't stop talking even then."

It's hardly the first time she has told him something along those lines this night, but it does seem more true now that both of them are standing here like this. For the first time this evening, they are in a situation somewhat resembling ones they experienced in the past, when they were together but at the same time so very far away from one another.

" _Look_ at me, Rumple," she breathes, sensing that he has done anything but that when they were in bed before - or on the bed, in his case. She briefly wonders if he ever has.

After a delightfully short moment, he does just that after all. For once, maybe for the very first time, he allows his gaze to wander over her. She can't imagine that she hasn't wanted this all along.

Ignoring her heart as it pointedly proves that it can still beat a whole lot faster than it's already been doing, she focuses all her attention on his eyes and the way they slowly take her in - all of her this time.

Her breath quickens whenever he lingers, when his tongue darts out to briefly lick his lips. She wonders whether they are as dry as hers are - and how they would feel against hers.

She asks herself too what he sees when he looks at her like this, how much his perception of her differs from the way she sees herself. Whereas she has seen a healthy and increasingly happy if unimpressive and unremarkable woman in the mirror's reflection, he clearly sees a whole lot more than that.

The redness on his cheeks mimics her own and his breathing grows rougher along with hers, his suddenly heated gaze wonderfully heavy on her. She simply can't begin to imagine why he didn't want to do this before.

Then again, it's hard to properly think at all when he admires her like this, swallowing with obvious difficulty. She dismisses the question what it would be like if his hands were to join his gaze, if only because she wouldn't be surprised if such thoughts would prevent her from functioning altogether.

"You... you are yet more beautiful than I believed," he says, hopeful yet wary, as if he expects her to disapprove of his opinion of her.

His voice is all rough again and she doesn't even bother to try to verbally reply to him, fearing that hers will be unintelligible. Undeserved as she feels that the very generous compliment is, she wants to make as clear to him as she can that he should never, ever be afraid to say such things to her.

Luckily, she doesn't need any words to tell him how much it means to her that he's telling her this, how much she enjoys his appreciation of her presence. She hangs the coat which she is still carrying over the edge of the magnificent bed he conjured for her, wanting to have both of her hands free.

Reaching out for him again, she puts both her hands on his upper arms. Savoring the tense muscles she can feel underneath the ever so soft and warm material of his jacket, she strokes him from his elbows to his shoulders.

She has been looking intently at him from the moment she found him sitting all on his own in the hallway, his face buried in his hands. All of her attention has been focused on him, every detail committed to memory. She wanted to make as certain as she could that she would _remember_ him, even if she were to never see this wonderful man again. More than that, she wanted to study him in an attempt to make up for all the things about him that she can't remember any longer.

The better she got to know him throughout the evening, the more she began to appreciate the way he looks. It's not just those soft, ever so deep eyes that captured her attention first; she has also very quickly grown to adore the curve of his lips, the shape of his nose, the hints of gray in his hair.

But what she sees now goes beyond that. She wouldn't be able to define what particular part of him causes her to think so, but she finds the whole of him appealing in a way she didn't before.

There's an ever growing urge within her to run her hands through his hair in a way that has nothing to do with soothing him. She wants to smell him, to breathe him in, and not any longer because his scent is so much nicer than all others she has ever known.

She wants to touch him, just because she wants to and because she _can_.

But more than anything else, she desires to find out what it's like to kiss him, _properly,_ without fear and confusion.


	23. Chapter 23

She must have been quietly considering her sudden urge to touch him for longer than she thought, for he looks at her with a puzzled, ever so slightly worried expression.

"Belle?"

She gives him a reassuring smile, realizing only then that she must have been staring at him. She can't decide whether it's a good thing or not that he clearly isn't aware of what she was thinking.

Recalling his hesitant declaration of her beauty and his reluctance to accept her genuine compliments in return, she feels that this is another part of their relationship that she can begin to improve right now.

If he doesn't believe that she appreciates the way he looks as much as he loves the way she does, she'll simply have to make him see.

"I was just thinking about something," she says, looking straight at him to maximize the intended effect.

"What were you thinking about, sweetheart?" he asks quietly, not nearly as worried as she supposed he would have been earlier this evening.

If she wouldn't have been convinced before of the rightness of her plan, she certainly would be now. Her statement would have caused him concern or outright fear before, simply because he expected anything between them to turn out for worse almost by default. But now, there is little more than curiosity in his voice.

It's an incredible discovery indeed to find that progress is definitely possible - for both of them.

She makes certain to speak purposefully, wanting to make as clear to him as she can that she considers him as attractive as he does her. She herself finds it difficult to believe that anyone would find her beautiful, especially such a wonderful man.

But he has completely convinced her, and she is determined to do the same for him, to not be deterred by the insecurities which appear to have characterized their relationship so far.

"You are quite good-looking yourself, Rumple."

Harsh laughter escapes him at her bold declaration, but he closes his mouth before words of the same nature can leave it.

He just stares at her for a long while, almost frowning.

"You... you don't have to say that, sweetheart. You don't have to make me feel better about myself. I already feel better than I thought I could."

So much for her optimism. She is however not discouraged in the slightest. She supposes that it wouldn't be truly like him if he were to simply accept her praise, after all.

"I do want to make you feel better, that's true. But I'm not saying it for that reason. You see, I simply think you a very handsome man."

He shakes his head in confusion this time, as if he either thinks that he completely misunderstands her or that she has lost her mind in the span of a few rapid heartbeats.

By now, she knows quite well how to deal with that. Telling him might not have the intended result, but showing him instead...

"Don't... you don't have to... Belle, I know that you aren't lying, not on purpose, but you can't possibly mean this. I'm old and... damaged, inside and out."

Despite everything she has learned of him this evening, she is still shocked by the way he simply appears to be incapable of even considering the notion that she enjoys either his personality or his looks, let alone both of them.

It makes her only more determined to go through with this, to get through to _him_.

"Nobody is perfect, I suppose," she says, thinking of the few people she remembers.

The ones she met when she was on the road in the forest were not all that much better than those who held her captive in the basement of the hospital. All of those people took her places she didn't want to go, _kept_ her there, refusing to truly talk to her, to _help_ her.

Everyone, except for him.

"But _you_... you've done so much for me already," she continues. "I don't care what you look like."

He finally nods a little, relieved. Much as it pleases her that he can at least accept this at face value, it's not quite yet what she intends to achieve. Especially not because he only somewhat agrees now that she seemingly dismisses the relevancy of his appearance altogether.

"I don't care," she repeats, more firmly. "But that doesn't mean that I can't still really, really like the way you look. Because I do, Rumple. I do."

Reaching for him has become familiar, her hands finding his way back to his hair almost on their own accord.

She watches with joy and bemusement alike how he shuts his eyes, letting out deep sighs and similarly lovely sounds. At least he accepts her touch, openly and eagerly. In that sense, they have come a long way already.

"I do," she breathes again, determined to say it until he _believes_ it, just like he now no longer fears enjoying her caresses.

Since he isn't verbally rejecting her compliments any longer, it seems that he might be nearing that point after all.

"Maybe it's something that we aren't meant to understand. Maybe it's something that's just the way it is. Something that shouldn't be questioned."

He doesn't object to that either and her fingers make their way to the back of his neck in approval. Scratching him ever so lightly with her nails, hearing him groan in response, causes a no longer entirely unfamiliar flutter deep within her.

It makes it difficult to continue speaking, to _think_ , but that doesn't appear to be a problem either. She finds unexpected eloquence in the knowledge that he is just as mesmerized, as dumbfounded, as she is herself.

"Feel this, Rumple," she mutters, closing her own eyes to focus as much as she can on the sensations of touching him like this, of experiencing how they react to one another.

She slides one of her hands down his neck. She has touched him like this before, but the beat of his heart is significantly quicker than it was earlier when she places her hand above it.

"I think you're handsome," she says again, the declaration only met by a quiet grunt this time, one of a kind she is fairly certain has nothing to do with objection. "And I'm not saying that to make you feel better, although it would make me very glad if it would."

He reaches for her as well, stepping yet closer to her as he settles both his hands on her waist. His touch is more decisive than before and whereas his earlier caresses have comforted and reassured her, there is something so much more in the way he now moves his fingers and palms over her.

"If anything, it makes _me_ feel better. Because you are beautiful, and you are _mine_."

There is the sound of labored breath, but she wouldn't be able to tell whether it's caused by him or by herself, or perhaps by both of them.

"I'm yours, Rumple. Will you be mine?"

He nods sharply, tightening his hold on her ever so slightly. She shifts until the front of her gown brushes the outer one of all the layers he is still wearing. He adjusts his embrace as she does so, immediately accommodating her increased nearness.

"I'm yours," he rasps, hoarse and more certain than ever before. "I've always been yours, and I always will be."

His hands go around her sides, settling on the small of her back, his fingers splayed wide over the material of her nightgown. There's something particularly wonderful about the way he pulls her against him, protective yet almost... _possessive_ , something so very enchanting about the way the warmth of his palms seeps through her clothing.

There is only a few inches of space left between their faces. Although it's hardly the first time either that this has happened throughout the course of the evening, there's definitely something new in this as well.

"That's settled then," she breathes, feeling that no more words are needed now that they are together like this, the promise in their eyes so much more clear than any words could ever be.

Taking one hand from her back, he cradles her cheek, brushing his thumb along her jaw in a feather-light touch. He licks his lip and whether it was the intended effect or not - probably not, judging by everything she has learned of him tonight - her gaze is drawn towards the gesture... to the lips that have soothed her with words.

She wants him to use his mouth again, but this time not for talking... and not necessarily to soothe her.

This time, she isn't disgusted in the slightest when she thinks back on the sort-of kiss that he bestowed upon her a few nights ago. This time, there is none of the slight reluctance and mild curiosity when she considered kissing him before. This time, she doesn't think of the effect that a mere brush of lips might have on her memory, on regaining the life that once was hers.

This time, she _wants_ to kiss him.

Her eyes are focused on his lips, and so is the rest of her body. There is no hesitance when she leans in to him, decreasing the distance between them yet more. They are breathing the same, hot air between them, but it couldn't be any less stifling.

Their noses are bumping awkwardly against one another, but she finds nothing but joy in their shared clumsiness. She supposes that she'll always love this, their still uncertain but so very real _togetherness_ , but she especially does so now that her eyes flutter closed and her heartbeat is becoming almost erratic, now that their mouths are so close to one another and it'll be only a matter of seconds before their lips will meet.

"Belle, what..."

She hushes him, almost swallowing his questioning words, taking his surprise and turning it into hopeful wonder.

She's aware of the smallest of sensations, in a way she wasn't even when her world was limited to her cell in the basement. She doesn't miss a single detail of the sounds he's making, from his rough breathing to the noise he makes when it dawns on him what she's going to do, something between a gasp and a groan.

She reacts in kind, a longing moan escaping her. Despite being wholly focused on him, the irony doesn't escape her attention of feeling like this about the man who terrified her just a few days ago by doing exactly this. It makes her only more determined to make an end to the rift that was forced between them after her memories were taken, to re-claim as much as she can of what was stolen from her... to make this _right_.

Her closed eyes prevent her from looking at him, from seeing all the emotions play out on his face, almost as if it were a book. But much as she'd like to watch him, there's something stronger than herself that keeps her eyes firmly shut.

Besides, she feels as if she doesn't have to actually see him in order to know how he reacts to her.

The scent of him is yet more enjoyable now that she can't see him. It appears to be all around her, seemingly stronger than before, but this too has become exciting rather than calming. The tickle of his hair against her face makes her only more eager to move towards him.

All of it makes her feel warmer than she has ever been before, but she's shivering in a way she never wants to stop doing.

When there remains only a hairbreadth between them, when she is only the briefest moment away from reaching his lips with her own, convinced that she's going to experience what it'll be like to actually, properly kiss him... there's a sudden barrier between them.

* * *

**Chapter 24: Part 24**

* * *

Part 24

Her eyes flying open, bewilderment washes over her when she finds herself brushing her mouth against something other than the lips of her True Love.

For the briefest of moments she fears that something has come between them yet again, that there's magic of sorts separating them from one another even now.

But when she can eventually focus on anything but the kiss she was expecting, she finds that her lips are pressing against his fingers, his hand effectively preventing her from kissing his mouth.

"What..."

She can only stare at him, wide-eyed, not understanding in the slightest what is happening, let alone why he is doing this.

After everything they have shared tonight, she is convinced that this is exactly what both of them want. He craves this kiss as much as she does; he might not have said so in words, but everything else about him most certainly has.

And yet, here they are, once again not finally kissing one another after all.

"This isn't right, sweetheart."

Her gaze going wildly over his face, she looks for anything that can perhaps make her understand, that might explain why he is preventing her from kissing him.

He still maintains the boundary between them, making his intentions - or rather, his lack thereof – more than clear. But she can't bring herself to move away from him, to put any more distance between the two of them.

His own gaze is lowered, and so is his head, his hair shielding his face from her once more. Really, she thought that they were beyond this, that he wouldn't be afraid any longer to show her how he is truly feeling.

"I... I don't think we should be trying this. Not tonight."

Her mouth falls open when it dawns on her what he's saying... what he thinks she meant to do when she leaned in to him, fully intent on kissing him.

"Sweetheart, I know that you want your memories back. I want the same thing for you, for _us_. But I don't... I don't think this is the right moment to try. It's so very soon. I don't want you to be... disappointed."

"You think I did that only because I wanted to try to restore my memories by kissing you?!"

He nods, still not looking at her, as if he can't possibly think of any other reason why she might want to kiss him.

It really seems that, much as she dislikes it, she won't be able to take away his uncertainties by sheer force of will. She can show him how much she cares for him - how much she can _love_ him - for all she is worth; but whatever has caused his soul-deep doubts, it's increasingly clear to her that she can't take them away in a single evening.

She has no idea how much time it would take for him to accept more easily that she genuinely wants to be with him, that she wants to kiss him for reasons that have nothing to do with regaining her memories. But no matter how long that might take, she wants to remind him of her love whenever she can.

So instead of withdrawing from him like he seems to expect now that her attempt to kiss him has led to nothing, she moves closer to him again. Taking his hands in her own, she brings them back to her sides, feeling better already as soon as his palms rest ever so lightly on her waist.

"I do want my memories back," she says, cradling his face in her hands and brushing her thumbs along his cheek, his stubble wonderfully noticeable under her skin. "But that doesn't mean that I can't enjoy anything in the mean time. That I don't _want_ anything."

She's very pleased when he meets her eyes again, his breathing deliciously harsh once more. His moods of unabashed longing can end so quickly, but it's a delight indeed that she appears to be rather good at quickly getting him back in such a state.

"It doesn't mean that I don't want _you_."

If it weren't for his ever tantalizing nearness, she might have jumped in triumph when he rests his forehead against her own and tightens his hold on her.

"I just don't want to disappoint you, sweetheart."

He has already said something along that line, but now he isn't talking about the chance that their kiss won't bring back her memories. Still, it's worse yet when he practically tells her that he believes that she won't enjoy being kissed by him.

"I don't think you will," she breathes.

Much as she'd like to kiss him after all right there and then, she doesn't do so. The whole act seems a lot more difficult and less natural now that she's thinking about it so much. But more than that, she doesn't want to rush ahead of him again, causing him to jump to wrong conclusions, misguided as they might be.

"It's not that I don't _want_ to, Belle. I most definitely do. Please know that. And I dare to believe now that you want to as well."

"What's stopping you then?" she asks, her heart leaping with joy at his declaration.

One hand still caressing his face and the other finding its way back into his ever so soft hair, their noses touching, talking rather than enjoying the planned alternative isn't nearly as frustrating as it could have been.

"Because I'm afraid of what might happen if we kiss again... of what might _not_ happen."

"You think that the kiss won't give me back my memories," she mutters, a particularly gentle caress of his telling her that at least he isn't afraid right now that she won't like kissing him.

Aware of the increasing tension within him, of how difficult it must be for him to share this particular fear with her, she pointedly responds to the gesture. Her fingers blindly find their way back to his nape, scratching him ever so slightly in the way that has him groaning quietly.

More feeling than hearing the sound that originates so very near her, there is indeed no mistaking his willingness to be so close to her, to touch her and to be touched by her in return.

She has already sensed that it's hard for him to communicate like this, to be so open about his innermost thoughts and feelings. But as he angles his head and rubs his nose against her throat in a display of utter need, inhaling deeply, it dawns on her that this is difficult for him in a whole other way as well.

Preventing her from kissing him seemed like the easy choice for him when she presumed that he was only afraid of the outcome of such a gesture of affection. But now that she learns that he truly wants to kiss her as badly as she does him, she wonders how he managed to stop her in the first place.

"I'm afraid that the kiss won't return your memories, yes," he says, the words barely audible due to the softness of his voice and the close proximity of his mouth to the skin of her throat, to the way he gasps at the slightest change in pressure of her fingers against his scalp. "So much has changed. The most for you, of course, but for me as well. Just talking with you like this... I couldn't have imagined that. You've tried to let me be a better man for almost as long as we've known each other. But tonight... tonight I feel for the first time that maybe I can truly be the man who you deserve."

Glad as she is to hear that he believes that he can be a better man, she doesn't immediately understand what he is referring to, not seeing how the changes both of them have gone through have anything to do with the effects of True Love's Kiss.

"Maybe neither of us are who we were a day ago. And maybe..."

He has that look in his eyes, the very one which means that he wants to withdraw from her in every sense of the word, that he's afraid of what he has to say. But unlike before, he doesn't look away from her, doesn't increase the distance between them with even an inch.

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe it's not so bad after all."

"What do you mean?" she asks, for the first time since quite a while not understanding what he's telling her.

"Both of us aren't quite who we used to be when the kiss did have its effect. But maybe it's not necessarily a bad thing if True Love's kiss wouldn't work for us for now."

He does lower his head then after all. But he doesn't let go of her, almost impossibly tender fingertips on the small of her back telling her of the hope that he can't communicate with words.

"You think that our kiss would be a disappointment anyway, whether it brings back my memories or not," she reasons, drawing her conclusion.

He nods apologetically.

"If the kiss doesn't bring back my memories," she says, trying to follow his argumentation, "it means that our love isn't true."

She wrinkles her nose at that. The more she considers it, the less she likes the notion that a kiss can determine whether love is true or not.

"But if it _does_ work and I do remember..."

His fingers remain on her lower back, but they aren't moving any longer. It strengthens her belief that there's something he fears even if their kiss were to restore her memories.

When she first learned that she has a whole life that she can't remember, she would have given a lot to be able to recall it, let alone get back to it. She couldn't have imagined that there would be reasons for her not to go right back to where she was forced to forget. After all, it was almost as if she stopped living then, being unable to remember anything but a lifetime in a basement cell.

But she has found out throughout the evening that her past life wasn't nearly as ideal as she would have believed - and that her relationship with him wasn't quite perfect either. But right now, between her memory loss and his almost paralyzing fear of losing her forever... she's _happy_ , and she's rather certain that her True Love is as well.

"You think that I won't want to be with you any longer if I am able to remember our past."

He nods again, yet more miserably than the previous time he did so. It confirms to her that he, just like her, never had expected that being like this, confused and afraid but together, could be better than being aware and secure but apart.

Her heart aches at his implied conviction that the return of her memories would make an end to what has started to blossom between them throughout the evening.

"I can't speak for who I used to be. For who I _should_ be," she says firmly, needing to make him see how wrong she thinks he is about this. "But the way _I_ see it... with or without my memories, I think I feel the same way about you, Rumple."

He stares at her, disbelieving and yet more hopeful than she has seen him so far.

"Whatever we have now... I think it's beautiful. I don't know exactly what we used to have, only that it probably wasn't like this. But this... this is lovely, very lovely, in its own way."

" _Yes_. Being with you like this... it's wonderful. I don't want that to change. But I think that it will if we kiss, whether your memories return or not. I'd like to be able to think of only _this_ when I think back on this night."

"I understand," she says, nodding. She may not entirely agree with him, not believing that the return of her memories would change anything about the way she has grown to see her True Love, but she shares his opinion that it would be a joy to, for just once, have nothing but increasingly good moments. "So you'd like to keep it at this, for tonight at least?"

"I'd like that very much, yes," he says, finally relaxing a little again, his relief almost tangible. "And you?"

"I'd like it as well. I don't think that the aftermath of our kiss would be a bad one either way, but I enjoy this very much as well. Just talking, and... touching in other ways."

Warmth rises to her cheeks when she recalls just how much the caresses they have shared so far already impacted her. Really, if they were to expand the intimacy they've shared this evening to something slightly less chaste... she isn't certain at all whether she would be able to take that.

It wouldn't surprise her if she were to faint in his arms if he were to make her feel any more flushed and _hot_ than he already did, apparently wholly on accident. But she wouldn't care all that much even if she did, because she knows for certain that her True Love would catch her, coaxing her back to consciousness with the same gentleness and patience he has shown all evening.

"No kiss then, tonight?" he asks, bringing her attention back to the present.

"No _kisses_ tonight," she confirms, despite the solemness of the agreement giving in to the urge to remind him that she would prefer to kiss him a great many times rather than just once.

He looks equally relieved and frustrated to have come up with this measure, but there's no hesitance when he reaches for her. She happily locks her arms around his neck when he pulls her against him.

Burrowing her face into his chest with a contented sigh, she takes courage from the fact that he has at least become certain enough to embrace her like this.

When he rocks both of them ever so slightly, humming quietly into her ear, any disappointment she felt fades quickly. Experiencing this comfort and peace together, this utter security, means more to her than anything else.


	24. Chapter 24

Her eyes flying open, bewilderment washes over her when she finds herself brushing her mouth against something other than the lips of her True Love.

For the briefest of moments she fears that something has come between them yet again, that there's magic of sorts separating them from one another even now.

But when she can eventually focus on anything but the kiss she was expecting, she finds that her lips are pressing against his fingers, his hand effectively preventing her from kissing his mouth.

"What..."

She can only stare at him, wide-eyed, not understanding in the slightest what is happening, let alone why he is doing this.

After everything they have shared tonight, she is convinced that this is exactly what both of them want. He craves this kiss as much as she does; he might not have said so in words, but everything else about him most certainly has.

And yet, here they are, once again not finally kissing one another after all.

"This isn't right, sweetheart."

Her gaze going wildly over his face, she looks for anything that can perhaps make her understand, that might explain why he is preventing her from kissing him.

He still maintains the boundary between them, making his intentions - or rather, his lack thereof – more than clear. But she can't bring herself to move away from him, to put any more distance between the two of them.

His own gaze is lowered, and so is his head, his hair shielding his face from her once more. Really, she thought that they were beyond this, that he wouldn't be afraid any longer to show her how he is truly feeling.

"I... I don't think we should be trying this. Not tonight."

Her mouth falls open when it dawns on her what he's saying... what he thinks she meant to do when she leaned in to him, fully intent on kissing him.

"Sweetheart, I know that you want your memories back. I want the same thing for you, for _us_. But I don't... I don't think this is the right moment to try. It's so very soon. I don't want you to be... disappointed."

"You think I did that only because I wanted to try to restore my memories by kissing you?!"

He nods, still not looking at her, as if he can't possibly think of any other reason why she might want to kiss him.

It really seems that, much as she dislikes it, she won't be able to take away his uncertainties by sheer force of will. She can show him how much she cares for him - how much she can _love_ him - for all she is worth; but whatever has caused his soul-deep doubts, it's increasingly clear to her that she can't take them away in a single evening.

She has no idea how much time it would take for him to accept more easily that she genuinely wants to be with him, that she wants to kiss him for reasons that have nothing to do with regaining her memories. But no matter how long that might take, she wants to remind him of her love whenever she can.

So instead of withdrawing from him like he seems to expect now that her attempt to kiss him has led to nothing, she moves closer to him again. Taking his hands in her own, she brings them back to her sides, feeling better already as soon as his palms rest ever so lightly on her waist.

"I do want my memories back," she says, cradling his face in her hands and brushing her thumbs along his cheek, his stubble wonderfully noticeable under her skin. "But that doesn't mean that I can't enjoy anything in the mean time. That I don't _want_ anything."

She's very pleased when he meets her eyes again, his breathing deliciously harsh once more. His moods of unabashed longing can end so quickly, but it's a delight indeed that she appears to be rather good at quickly getting him back in such a state.

"It doesn't mean that I don't want _you_."

If it weren't for his ever tantalizing nearness, she might have jumped in triumph when he rests his forehead against her own and tightens his hold on her.

"I just don't want to disappoint you, sweetheart."

He has already said something along that line, but now he isn't talking about the chance that their kiss won't bring back her memories. Still, it's worse yet when he practically tells her that he believes that she won't enjoy being kissed by him.

"I don't think you will," she breathes.

Much as she'd like to kiss him after all right there and then, she doesn't do so. The whole act seems a lot more difficult and less natural now that she's thinking about it so much. But more than that, she doesn't want to rush ahead of him again, causing him to jump to wrong conclusions, misguided as they might be.

"It's not that I don't _want_ to, Belle. I most definitely do. Please know that. And I dare to believe now that you want to as well."

"What's stopping you then?" she asks, her heart leaping with joy at his declaration.

One hand still caressing his face and the other finding its way back into his ever so soft hair, their noses touching, talking rather than enjoying the planned alternative isn't nearly as frustrating as it could have been.

"Because I'm afraid of what might happen if we kiss again... of what might _not_ happen."

"You think that the kiss won't give me back my memories," she mutters, a particularly gentle caress of his telling her that at least he isn't afraid right now that she won't like kissing him.

Aware of the increasing tension within him, of how difficult it must be for him to share this particular fear with her, she pointedly responds to the gesture. Her fingers blindly find their way back to his nape, scratching him ever so slightly in the way that has him groaning quietly.

More feeling than hearing the sound that originates so very near her, there is indeed no mistaking his willingness to be so close to her, to touch her and to be touched by her in return.

She has already sensed that it's hard for him to communicate like this, to be so open about his innermost thoughts and feelings. But as he angles his head and rubs his nose against her throat in a display of utter need, inhaling deeply, it dawns on her that this is difficult for him in a whole other way as well.

Preventing her from kissing him seemed like the easy choice for him when she presumed that he was only afraid of the outcome of such a gesture of affection. But now that she learns that he truly wants to kiss her as badly as she does him, she wonders how he managed to stop her in the first place.

"I'm afraid that the kiss won't return your memories, yes," he says, the words barely audible due to the softness of his voice and the close proximity of his mouth to the skin of her throat, to the way he gasps at the slightest change in pressure of her fingers against his scalp. "So much has changed. The most for you, of course, but for me as well. Just talking with you like this... I couldn't have imagined that. You've tried to let me be a better man for almost as long as we've known each other. But tonight... tonight I feel for the first time that maybe I can truly be the man who you deserve."

Glad as she is to hear that he believes that he can be a better man, she doesn't immediately understand what he is referring to, not seeing how the changes both of them have gone through have anything to do with the effects of True Love's Kiss.

"Maybe neither of us are who we were a day ago. And maybe..."

He has that look in his eyes, the very one which means that he wants to withdraw from her in every sense of the word, that he's afraid of what he has to say. But unlike before, he doesn't look away from her, doesn't increase the distance between them with even an inch.

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe it's not so bad after all."

"What do you mean?" she asks, for the first time since quite a while not understanding what he's telling her.

"Both of us aren't quite who we used to be when the kiss did have its effect. But maybe it's not necessarily a bad thing if True Love's kiss wouldn't work for us for now."

He does lower his head then after all. But he doesn't let go of her, almost impossibly tender fingertips on the small of her back telling her of the hope that he can't communicate with words.

"You think that our kiss would be a disappointment anyway, whether it brings back my memories or not," she reasons, drawing her conclusion.

He nods apologetically.

"If the kiss doesn't bring back my memories," she says, trying to follow his argumentation, "it means that our love isn't true."

She wrinkles her nose at that. The more she considers it, the less she likes the notion that a kiss can determine whether love is true or not.

"But if it _does_ work and I do remember..."

His fingers remain on her lower back, but they aren't moving any longer. It strengthens her belief that there's something he fears even if their kiss were to restore her memories.

When she first learned that she has a whole life that she can't remember, she would have given a lot to be able to recall it, let alone get back to it. She couldn't have imagined that there would be reasons for her not to go right back to where she was forced to forget. After all, it was almost as if she stopped living then, being unable to remember anything but a lifetime in a basement cell.

But she has found out throughout the evening that her past life wasn't nearly as ideal as she would have believed - and that her relationship with him wasn't quite perfect either. But right now, between her memory loss and his almost paralyzing fear of losing her forever... she's _happy_ , and she's rather certain that her True Love is as well.

"You think that I won't want to be with you any longer if I am able to remember our past."

He nods again, yet more miserably than the previous time he did so. It confirms to her that he, just like her, never had expected that being like this, confused and afraid but together, could be better than being aware and secure but apart.

Her heart aches at his implied conviction that the return of her memories would make an end to what has started to blossom between them throughout the evening.

"I can't speak for who I used to be. For who I _should_ be," she says firmly, needing to make him see how wrong she thinks he is about this. "But the way _I_ see it... with or without my memories, I think I feel the same way about you, Rumple."

He stares at her, disbelieving and yet more hopeful than she has seen him so far.

"Whatever we have now... I think it's beautiful. I don't know exactly what we used to have, only that it probably wasn't like this. But this... this is lovely, very lovely, in its own way."

" _Yes_. Being with you like this... it's wonderful. I don't want that to change. But I think that it will if we kiss, whether your memories return or not. I'd like to be able to think of only _this_ when I think back on this night."

"I understand," she says, nodding. She may not entirely agree with him, not believing that the return of her memories would change anything about the way she has grown to see her True Love, but she shares his opinion that it would be a joy to, for just once, have nothing but increasingly good moments. "So you'd like to keep it at this, for tonight at least?"

"I'd like that very much, yes," he says, finally relaxing a little again, his relief almost tangible. "And you?"

"I'd like it as well. I don't think that the aftermath of our kiss would be a bad one either way, but I enjoy this very much as well. Just talking, and... touching in other ways."

Warmth rises to her cheeks when she recalls just how much the caresses they have shared so far already impacted her. Really, if they were to expand the intimacy they've shared this evening to something slightly less chaste... she isn't certain at all whether she would be able to take that.

It wouldn't surprise her if she were to faint in his arms if he were to make her feel any more flushed and _hot_ than he already did, apparently wholly on accident. But she wouldn't care all that much even if she did, because she knows for certain that her True Love would catch her, coaxing her back to consciousness with the same gentleness and patience he has shown all evening.

"No kiss then, tonight?" he asks, bringing her attention back to the present.

"No _kisses_ tonight," she confirms, despite the solemness of the agreement giving in to the urge to remind him that she would prefer to kiss him a great many times rather than just once.

He looks equally relieved and frustrated to have come up with this measure, but there's no hesitance when he reaches for her. She happily locks her arms around his neck when he pulls her against him.

Burrowing her face into his chest with a contented sigh, she takes courage from the fact that he has at least become certain enough to embrace her like this.

When he rocks both of them ever so slightly, humming quietly into her ear, any disappointment she felt fades quickly. Experiencing this comfort and peace together, this utter security, means more to her than anything else.


	25. Chapter 25

He holds her for a long time, his hands on their by now slightly familiar place on her waist and his head resting on her shoulder, his breath warm against her neck.

Sometimes he moves slightly, to nuzzle her throat or to kiss her temple, becoming once more as relaxed as she can remember him.

She thoroughly savors his ministrations, her own hands never leaving his hair and his back. She finds it increasingly easy to return his touches, her confidence growing that she can make him feel as wonderful as he does her.

"You should go to sleep," he mutters at length, his words whispering against her throat. He withdraws before she has the chance to object.

Right then, she wants nothing more than pull him against her, being as close to him as she can for as long as possible. But she reminds herself again that this is what they have agreed on, that she'll give him one night to think this over and that he'll give her a lifetime of togetherness afterwards.

"Yes, I'll go to sleep," she agrees, breathing him in deeply one last time before stepping away from him. She's only capable of doing so because she knows that, from tomorrow on, they can enjoy one another's nearness as much as they want.

He sighs deeply, shivering as soon as she isn't in his arms any longer. Unpleasant as it is to see him like this, obviously not quite as happy as a moment ago, she can't help but find some joy in the discovery that he reacts exactly the same to their approaching departure as she does.

Now that she isn't pressed against him any longer, she's able to focus on anything other than him. She regains awareness of the beautiful nightgown she's wearing and the doubtlessly very comfortable bed that's awaiting her.

It reminds her of the coat that he gave her earlier that night. She steps back to retrieve it from the edge of the bed, offering it to him with some reluctance.

The coat is his after all, and she wants him to wear it again. He probably needs it in the world outside the hospital, but that won't stop her from missing the comfort that the material offers her.

"Would you like to keep it?"

She startles at his question, still not quite used to the fact that he can understand her so easily, that he often doesn't need words in order to know what she longs for, what she _needs_.

She didn't intend to tell him that she'd indeed like to keep it, not wanting him to leave without his coat for her sake. Surely it's cold outside; surely he needs the warmth that the fabric provides more than she does.

But his tone is yearning, as if he _hopes_ that she wants to keep his coat with her, either as a reminder of him or simply as a means to be more comfortable.

So she nods at his inquiry, beaming when he takes the material from her, gesturing at the bed he conjured for her. He tentatively spreads his coat over the blankets, as if it were another cover – almost as if he leaves a part of him with her.

No matter how warm and comfortable the actual blankets doubtlessly are, she already knows that it's the carefully placed coat that will keep her warm the most throughout the night.

She can't think of anything else that might keep him with her any longer, except for him to bid her a goodnight. He was the one after all who was so very insistent for her to have some time to herself, to make up her mind regarding him without his nearness and influence.

But he lingers, as if there's something else that he wants to do.

"What is it?" she asks, sensing that he is reluctant to bring up whatever it is he wishes to do or tell her.

"I would like to leave you protected in my absence tonight, if you don't mind."

Only when she recalls her previous self's apparent dislike of magic, she understands his hesitance.

"You mean to use a spell or something of the like," she concludes, already mentally weighing the possible benefits and disadvantages of such a possible solution.

"Indeed. If you don't object, of course."

"I don't know much of this world, of what might happen when you're not here. But I think I'll sleep better knowing that there is something keeping me safe even when you're gone for the night."

He brightens at her words, but she isn't finished yet.

"But you've said that magic has a price. And you... you've already done so much for me. Do you really think that I need such protection, that something might happen to me tonight?"

"I'm not the right person to judge that, Belle. I know that I tend to be... overly protective whenever you are concerned."

"I can imagine," she replies, smiling a little.

"It's just that... yes, it's true that there's a price. But I'll pay it. Of course I will. Don't ever doubt that."

"I don't," she says, having learned by now that it's the opposite that she has to worry about. Her True Love tends to forget himself and his own well-being in his determination to keep her safe or even comfortable.

There must be a reason that the woman she used to be was so opposed to him indulging in his powers; it might have to do something with whatever costs such actions require.

"What's the price of the magic that you would need to protect me tonight?"

"You want the honest answer, I presume?"

She nods in response to his resigned question, taking the fact that he asks this in the first place as a good sign.

"Proper wards require a lot more than a simple trick such as conjuring the rose and the brush, or even the bed. But it's nothing I can't handle, nothing I haven't done before. It'll be harmless."

"All right then."

He visibly relaxes. It'll never cease to amaze her that this man can be so happy simply by doing things for her.

There's more to him than the considerate, gentle man he is with her, she knows that. One look at his face right after she was shot in the forest was enough for that, his anger burning more violently than the ball of fire in his hand did.

Whatever she may have known of him before then is gone however. The missing memories are still a loss, of course they are, but she more and more revels in the unique opportunity of getting to know this man all over again.

"Do you need anything for the wards you mentioned?" she asks, this sort of magic currently unknown to her.

"Only my magic and focus, nothing more than that."

He steps away from her, gesturing for her to step back, so that there's nothing between him and the bed she'll occupy that night.

"A ward is like an invisible shield to protect whatever is inside of them," he explains. "There are many different kinds, but the one I'll raise will prevent anyone and anything from harming anyone who is inside the wards - which is you, in this case."

"I like that," she says quietly.

She doesn't fully grasp the notion yet that no one can do anything against her while she sleeps, if only because she can't remember experiencing this level of safety before. That doesn't mean that she can't appreciate the offered protection very much indeed.

"I'm glad," he simply replies. "It's unlikely that anyone will bother you here, that someone is foolish enough to attempt it, but one can never be certain of these things. I prefer you to be as safe as you can be, and if I'm not here myself, the wards can keep you safe regardless."

Nodding her approval, she curiously watches him as he closes his eyes and raises his hands, obviously about to perform whatever magic is necessary to create the wards he told her about.

There's a shimmer of _something_ flowing from his hands, spreading around the bed. It's not quite visible, like liquid and semi-transparent silver, but she can feel its warmth in the air around her.

The silvery shimmer becomes thicker and larger, quite literally forming a wall around the place where she'll sleep that night. She's standing a few feet away from it, but even there she can sense a sort of protectiveness radiating off it.

He mutters under his breath, keeping his eyes closed and his hands upwards. She doesn't understand the words, but she doesn't need to in order to know that they are part of the magic.

Before long, this most peculiar kind of barrier has been created. Or at least, that's what she thinks. There's a silhouette of the liquid not-quite wall right in front of her, becoming thicker with each moments that passes.

He doesn't stop enforcing it, though. His voice is becoming hoarser, his breath harsh, and there's perspiration on his brow. Yet, he continues, more of the silvery matter flowing from his hands to the wards.

"Rumple?"

She supposes he knows exactly when the defense is finished, when he ought to stop, but she doesn't like the way this is going.

Whatever magic he is performing clearly puts a strain on him. She knows nothing of magic except for the few things he has told her throughout the evening, but there's no doubt in her mind that this can't be good for him.

He hasn't told her just how demanding this is, only that he'll gladly pay the price for her. But if _this_ is the cost of her protection, she doesn't want him to pay it.

"Rumple!"

He doesn't react. Whether he can't hear her or simply ignores her, she doesn't know.

His teeth are bared now, sweat sliding down his face in thick drops. The silvery shimmer is still thickening. It's like it's draining him, sucking magic out of him.

She has been powerless for as long as she can remember, but never has she felt more helpless as when she witnesses this magic consume him.

It's as if he's pouring _himself_ into these wards, his way of keeping her safe in his absence. Or rather, it's almost as if the magic drags his life out of him.

He's gradually starting to shake, the strain on him visibly increasing. He is speaking no longer, but the magic doesn't end. His eyes are closed tightly, too tightly, as if he is in pain.

She wants to stop it, to stop _him_ , but she doesn't have a clue how she can safely do so. She's afraid that she'll harm him if she were to interrupt him... but she's just as scared of doing nothing and letting this go too far, for as far as that hasn't happened already.

_"Rumple!"_

She's yelling now, but it doesn't appear to make any difference. She doesn't have to look around the room and the hallway outside to confirm there's no one else around to help him; his own spell to keep onlookers away has made certain of that.

She doesn't dare leave the room, let alone the hallway, in search of any help. She can't bear to leave him alone for even a moment; she wouldn't know anyone who might be capable – and willing – to help him anyway.

Sheer panic rising within her, she recalls the dislike of magic she supposedly used to have. Only now she's starting to understand why her former self disapproved of this power of his, even if used for good.

If only she would have been _herself_ , she wouldn't have allowed him to do this. If only she wouldn't have been _stupid_ , letting him use his powers on her account, if only...

The flow of matter coming from his hands is becoming thinner, but she doesn't suppose that it's a good sign. Rather than purposefully using less energy, it looks to her like the magic simply has less to take from him instead.

Deciding that she'll have to take matters into her own hands, she steps towards her still shaking True Love. He can barely stand any longer, which makes it easy to determine her first course of action after all.

Making sure not to touch whatever it is exactly that's spreading from his hands, she embraces him from his side, supporting his weight.

"Please, Rumple, _stop this_ ," she whispers, pressing her face against his damp hair, hoping that he'll somehow understand that he can't go on like this.

He tenses at her embrace, seemingly becoming aware of her at last.

"You've got to stop, Rumplestiltskin," she pleads, for the first time using the full name he has given her, hoping that it'll somehow make a difference.

Nothing changes for several frantic heartbeats, but then he finally lowers his hands, the flow of magic coming to an abrupt end.

She pulls slightly back from him, just in time to see him stare into nothing with wide, unseeing eyes.


	26. Chapter 26

"Rumple!"

He blinks a few times in quick succession as he leans heavily against her, looking straight past her. It's as if he can hear her, but is unable to determine where the sound of her voice is coming from.

She can barely think over the sound of her heart racing and her blood rushing in her ears. She doesn't allow herself to think that this is all her fault, that she should have stopped him like she in all likelihood would have done if only she could remember who she actually is, who she _should_ be.

She wouldn't have been able to believe it before she actually got to know him tonight, and a part of her may still fear that it's too good to be true, but she doesn't doubt herself nearly as much as she used to.

She knows that she has lost her memories, that she can't remember who she is, but she also knows that she isn't any less of a person because she can't recall the past, both theirs and her own.

More than anything, he has given her faith. In herself, in _them_.

So she takes a deep breath and steels herself when her True Love fully collapses against her, holding on to her even now that practically all his strength has deserted him.

Supporting him as well as she can, she guides him towards to the nearest comfortable surface. While doing so, she cherishes the unexpected strength in her own body when she keeps up the majority of his weight on their way to the bed he conjured for her earlier.

Nothing happens when they go through the barrier he just created, save a tingle of the same warmth and protectiveness she sensed when he raised the wards.

She helps him to lie down heavily on the bed. For a lack of knowing what else to do, she carefully runs her hands just above every inch of bare skin to check for any injuries.

Other than the signs that he has just completely exhausted himself physically, she can't find any.

His eyes are closed as he lies on the bed, his breath shallow. Although it may look like it at first glance, there's no doubt that he isn't simply sleeping.

There's no reaction from him when she cups his cheeks in her hands, caressing his chin lightly with her thumbs.

"Rumple?"

She's hardly surprised when he doesn't react. At least he doesn't appear to be in any pain, but that's only a small comfort to her.

Not taking her hands from his face, she considers him, lying there like that, unusually still and so very, very pale.

She recalls what he has told her about True Love's Kiss. Far away as it may seem now, it can't have been long ago at all when he explained that a kiss between them can undo so many unpleasant things.

Of course, what she remembers yet more vividly is his hesitance to try this act, both in fear of upsetting her and for not experiencing the effects of True Love's Kiss upon the meeting of their lips in the first place.

They may have decided before not to try it, a peaceful relationship between them more important than her memories, but there's a lot more at stake now. He needs her, perhaps in a way she has never needed him.

So she leans over him, her hands trembling on the mattress on either side of his head as she closes the distance between them. His breath is warm against her face, and she imagines that the rush of air is already stronger than it was a moment ago.

"Please wake up, Rumple..." she mutters, her voice despite the circumstances not only filled with worry as she experimentally angles her head.

Her eyes flutter closed as she brings her mouth to his, anticipation welling up inside of her. Much as she does this only to help him, she's very much aware that, in a way, this is the first time that they'll kiss – or at least, the first time she'll be able to remember.

"Belle..."

His voice is so quiet that she barely hears it, croaked as if from long disuse, but he undeniably says her name just before their lips brush.

"Rumple!" she cries out, withdrawing immediately when she hears him speak again at last.

His eyes fly open when she moves back, looking past her once more, as if he still can't see her.

"It's all right," she quickly says, supposing that he needs to be put at ease more than anything else. "You're with me, you're safe. We both are."

He blinks heavily a few times. Then his eyes focus on her after all, wide and wild.

"Belle?" he asks, sounding as if he's thoroughly surprised to find her at his side.

"Yes, Rumple, it's me."

Tempted as she is to ask him what has happened to him, what he was _doing_ , she focuses on making him feel better first.

Spotting the handkerchief in the pocket of his suit jacket, she takes it to wipe the sweat from his face. His eyes close again as she tentatively dries his skin, but he mutters her name again, convincing her that he hasn't lost himself again like he just did.

His breathing gradually becomes calmer, his body slowly recovering from whatever he just did.

She puts the handkerchief back where she got it once she has dried his neck as well, caressing his shoulder while some color returns to his face.

"What happened?" she asks when his breath is more or less regular again and his eyes open once more.

"I... I went too far," he says, not meeting her gaze. "I lost control."

"Are you all right now?" she asks, fearing that whatever took hold of him might come back.

"I am, yes," he says, hesitating just a moment too long for her liking.

He may look a lot better than he did before, but he still appears to be very tired, making no effort to sit up. Given his earlier determination to leave, she presumes that his lack of movement is due to exhaustion rather than a change of mind to stay with her for at least a while longer.

So she just sits there with him, guiding his head to rest on her thigh as if it were a pillow.

"Magic is fueled by emotions," he says, his eyes calm and fully focused as he looks up at her. "Practicing magic is walking a thin line between summoning the emotions that are required to perform the magic without being consumed by them."

She nods, understanding, grateful that he is both open and well enough to offer an explanation.

"My magic is usually dark. It needs anger, hatred. I'm... well accustomed to that. The magic I used for the wards is of a much lighter kind. I used my love for you to channel the energy. I wanted to make the wards as strong as I could, to keep you as safe as possible, and..."

He trails off, his eyelids dropping.

"Rumple?"

"I'm fine," he ensures her, blinking again. He yawns as well, trying but not quite managing to prevent her from noticing.

Convinced that he is more exhausted than anything else, she presses an affectionate kiss against his cheek, relieved that he is out of whatever danger he was in.

"It needed to be strong, Belle," he says, yawning once more. "But I'm not used to this magic, based on so much love... it got stronger than me. But you pulled me back. You always do."

"I hope you'll be more careful in the future," she replies, torn between her gratitude for his protection, of the love behind it, and her shock that he would take this risk for her sake.

"The wards are very strong," he says, telling her everything she hoped he wouldn't by changing the topic rather than answering her question. "You'll be perfectly safe here tonight."

He tries to sit up, probably recalling that creating this barrier of protection was the last thing he planned to do before going back to his home, to leave her for a single night to consider her future.

But before he can move in a sitting position, he falls back onto the bed, his arms failing him.

He tries again immediately, with the same effect. He's panting with the effort of it, his eyes half-closed.

No matter how determined he is to be away from her for the course of this single night, there's no way that he's going to achieve that. Either by magical or regular means, he's simply too sleepy to go anywhere.

"You can't go to your home, Rumple," she says quietly, not surprised at all when he slightly rolls away from her in denial.

"You should have some time to rest and think," he repeats, the lowered determination in his voice also informing her that he's in no state to do anything but stay right here for the night.

"You can't leave like this; you can't even sit up. And even if you could, you'd get hurt if you try to go back to your house in this state. You're staying right here."

"Maybe I could just lie down for a while longer. I'm sure I'll feel better after a few minutes."

"We'll see," she smiles, sensing that he'll be long asleep by that time.

She guides him into a more comfortable position, lying him flat on his back. It's probably a signal of his fatigue that he doesn't protest when she carefully positions him on the mattress which she has hardly left in the past few days.

"Thank you," he murmurs drowsily, his eyes closed again. "This is much better."

She spots his cane lying on the floor, where it has fallen just outside the protective barrier when he lost control over the magic he used. She quickly hops off the bed, sticking her arm through the still pleasantly warm shield of shimmering air to retrieve it. She puts the cane right back next to the bed, as close to them as possible.

Although she hopes he won't have to rely on it for the time being, and much as she doesn't want to encourage him to even think of going anywhere but this very bed, she hasn't forgotten about the dangers that can occur. She supposes they might as well keep anything that they could urgently need within reach.

Turning around, she smiles fondly at the sight of him, all but falling asleep even as he struggles to remain awake. She wonders whether it's only the magic that has exhausted him so very much, whether he has had much sleep while she was in the hospital, or even before that.

He might not agree with it, but it's clear to her that there's only one course of action now. After all, the wards that just may as well have killed him don't only protect her as long as he stays within the boundaries as well.

"Relax," she says quietly, getting back onto the bed. Sitting down next to him, she places her hands on his shoulders and encourages him to lie down on his side in a more comfortable sleeping position, facing her. "Just like that."

"So much better," he mumbles, almost asleep already. "All because of you. Thank you, Belle, so much."

She smiles at his words, but she isn't content just yet. He isn't nearly as comfortable as she'd like him to be. The clothes that looked so very pleasant and impressive before seem little more than a nuisance now.

Really, his tie being as tight around his neck as it is, she wonders how he can even properly breathe now that half of his face is pressed against the covers on her bed.

She dreads to even consider the shoes and thick suit jacket he's still wearing.

All these clothes just won't do.


	27. Chapter 27

She considers her True Love as he lies on the bed in front of her, almost asleep but still fully clothed, wondering where she'll begin her quest to make him more comfortable.

Presuming that his shoes will be the easiest part, she starts with those. Kneeling down before him, she undoes the shoelaces with some difficulty, somewhat bewildered by how he managed to pull them so tightly and neatly in the first place.

Once the laces are undone, she wriggles first one, then the other shoe until she can free his feet from them, revealing black socks with blue stripes. They look wonderfully warm and fluffy and she decides to ask him for a pair of her own when the proper moment occurs.

By now, she's entirely convinced that there is only one way - and one place - where she wants him to spend the night. Deciding that there's nothing that's going to prevent that from happening, she pulls off his socks as well. He won't be needing those for warmth or comfort tonight.

She places his shoes beneath the bed and lays the socks on the armrest of the chair. Maybe it's her imagination, but he already looks more comfortable to her, which makes her only more eager to continue.

Sitting down at his side again, she briefly wishes that she would have done this before he laid down on his back, but seeing his serene expression and hearing his steady breathing is more than worth it.

Still, his features aren't calm for long when she starts to tug his jacket off him.

"Belle, what...?"

His eyes bursting open, he appears to be more confused than upset or uncomfortable, and she simply continues her work.

"Just making you feel better. Here, bend your arm a little."

He does as she asks, his eyes closing again already. The dark circles beneath his eyes have never been more pronounced.

"You already did, Belle. Much better."

It's easy to get his jacket off him once she has released his left arm from it. She folds the ever so soft and thick material carefully before placing it on the chair as well.

"So much better," he whispers, by now all but slurring the words.

It reminds her again that he has missed her as much as she has desperately longed for something, not knowing at the time what - whom - she craved exactly.

His tie still looks like it could suffocate him at any moment, so she starts to work on that next. Her fingers have rarely felt more clumsy then when they try to undo the smooth but strongly tied knots, but this too she manages, her hands eventually just knowing what to do.

Once both ends of the tie are free, she carefully lifts his head to cause as little inconvenience to him as possible when she pulls the delightfully soft fabric away from him.

She places his tie over his jacket on the chair, not allowing herself to further appreciate the fabric which is so very close to him all day. She isn't finished yet after all; the jacket she already took off him revealed only more layers of constricting fabric.

He doesn't protest when she removes his waistcoat too, simply shifts just enough to enable her to do so without opening his eyes for only a moment.

Still, his eyes fly open once more when she reaches for the blue shirt he wears underneath, the material ever so soft but tight against his throat.

"What are you doing?" he gasps, very much awake again, as if only fully aware now that she's slowly divesting him of his outer clothes.

"Like I said, I'm making you more comfortable," she says, beginning to doubt her intentions after all, whether she may have crossed a line she didn't know about.

"Just... just leave it like this," he says, lifting his head with visible effort in order to glance down his body to determine what he is still wearing.

"All right," she says, relieved that he doesn't seem as upset as she feared. Besides, she has already taken off all the items that looked like they caused him the most discomfort. Everything but that first button of his shirt, the one so very close to his chin, the collar that's so tightly around him. "Just the top button of your shirt? You should be able to breathe freely."

He nods weakly in agreement, but he tenses nonetheless when she reaches for the offending button.

"Rumple?"

"It's all right," he says, his eyes dropping closed again as a testimony of his sheer exhaustion. "Do it, if you want to."

She does, with fingers that start to tremble slightly, trying to find out without having to ask him why he reacted like this when she was about to start on, presumably, the last layer of clothing covering his chest.

Surely, he isn't nervous that she might see him without most of his impressive suit in place, almost as if it were an armor? She doesn't know much about the things that might happen between a man and a woman who are in love, true love, but surely something like this, bordering on embarrassment, isn't part of it?

Those questions will have to wait for later. For now, she congratulates herself on having managed to get him to this state, as comfortable as she can achieve. The leather belt that's still around his waist, especially the clasp at the front, looks far from pleasant to wear in bed, but she leaves it right where it is, not just his possible disapproval stopping her. She herself isn't quite at ease with the notion of removing it.

Pointedly not looking for longer than a second at the few inches of tanned skin and toned chest she revealed when undoing the top button of his dress shirt, she reaches for the wonderfully soft blankets.

"What are you doing?" he mutters, partly opening his eyes only to close them again immediately.

"Just making you more comfortable," she says, her reply completely honest although probably not in the way he suspects.

"Nice," he says, the single word barely audible as he burrows his face against the mattress. "Before going home."

She makes a noncommittal sound. It'll probably do more harm than good if she reminds him that he isn't in any shape to go anywhere.

"Got to leave you, Belle, just for tonight. So you can make your own choice. Got to give you space."

"I know that," she says, pulling the blanket from beneath his legs nonetheless.

She has made her decision already and this only persuades her further that going with him, living and being with him, is by far the best choice she can make.

"Just need to rest for a while," he murmurs, struggling in vain to even open his eyes by now.

It's terrifying indeed what the magic has done to him, its draining effect still so very visible.

"Are you certain that rest is enough? Don't you need anything else to help you?"

"All I... need is you," he responses, speaking so slowly that she's surprised that he finishes his sentence to begin with, having given up all pretense of maintaining at least some level of energy. "Rest is all I need to replenish..."

She waits for him to continue, but isn't surprised when he doesn't. She hoped that he could reassure her for once and for all that there will be no permanent consequences to this, that a good night's sleep will indeed be all he need to return him to his usual, strong self.

Then again, she supposes that there isn't assurance enough in the world to entirely take away her concern upon seeing him like this. But since he wasn't particularly worried when he was still mostly responsive, she tells herself that she shouldn't be, either.

"You'll get your rest. As much as you need."

"But not here. Can't..."

She almost rolls her eyes in amused bewilderment to find him still talking.

He attempts to sit up again, but doesn't even manage to move more than a few inches this time. He makes a sleepy sound of deep frustration, which leads her to believe that this is about more than him insisting that they spend the night separately so she has time to independently consider her future.

After everything she has learned of him throughout the night, she presumes that he's ashamed of being seen like this. He has insisted so often on protecting her, on being strong for her, that it must be difficult for him to appear defenseless to her.

It doesn't matter to her, every little thing he has said and done throughout the evening already making him as powerful as he is wonderful to her. It's something else that they'll need to discuss in the future, another item on the ever growing list of issues they have to sort out.

There is no doubt in her mind however that this too will be something that they'll solve together, especially when she lets go of the blanket and reaches for him instead. Even now, he immediately leans in to her touch when she strokes his jaw and cheek, letting her reassure him.

"Rest, Rumple. Just rest. You have done so much already."

"Just... need to close my eyes for a moment."

She doesn't reply with anything but a fond smile. Reaching for the blanket again with her free hand, she deftly covers him.

"Let me take care of you now," she says, her smile lingering at his lack of objection as she looks around for the nearest pillow.

"Always... you've always done so."

He smiles a little at that, his expression slowly relaxing after all as sleep and good memories alike appear to take a final hold on him.

She intended to guide his head onto a pillow, but as she shifts closer to him in order to reach for the intended object, she gets a better idea.

"I'm not going to stop caring for you, Rumple. Not even when you're as foolish as you just were."

He doesn't deign to respond to that, which is hardly surprising to her. She doesn't care all that much, because he willingly moves with her as she lifts his head from the mattress and urges him to shift towards her.

Taking the pillow which she selected before, she puts it between her back and the headboard of the bed. Leaning back against the pillow, she pulls the blankets up until they're covering both him and the lower half of her own body.

Although his reaction is much more guarded than hers is, both of them sigh in contentment when she guides his head onto her lap.

Her hands finding their way back to his hair, caressing and scratching his nape ever so slightly, she smiles with affection as he makes soft noises of appreciation.

He quickly becomes more quiet. Much as she enjoys listening to him, it's a relief to find him finally giving in to the urgent demand of his body.

"Darling Belle..."

Those two words, almost inaudibly soft, broaden her smile. It's wonderful to hear him talk about her like this, even when he is practically too exhausted to be aware that he does so.

She can't exactly see or feel it or notice it in any other way, but she knows when he falls asleep. Instead of ceasing her caresses, she is only happy to continue touching him, stroking all the way from the crown of his head to the nape of his neck, over and over again.

She inhales deeply, savoring his continued nearness. She encouraged him to rest only to make sure that he wouldn't accidentally harm himself or others while making his way home in such a state of fatigue, but now it's starting to dawn on her that her actions have an unintended but very delightful and more than welcome consequence.

She sighs in relief that she won't have to spend the night all alone once more after all. But it's more than the absence of loneliness and the fear of abandonment that fills her when she gazes upon him.

The two of them have already shared a variety of closeness and intimacy throughout the time they spent together here. Watching him sleep however, seeing him while he is as relaxed and unguarded as he's likely to ever be, is a whole new gift, and so is the possibility to watch him unobserved.

He is sprawled over the bed, despite his slight frame managing to cover most of the mattress. His head is lying comfortably on her thigh, but the rest of him is still just about where he collapsed on the bed quite a while ago.

That is remedied with some gentle urging, his body moving to make itself more comfortable on its own accord after her experimental nudges.

She is overcome with protectiveness and yet more love alike as he draws his knees upwards in his sleep, curling up around her. With a little help from her, his arms find their way around her waist, holding her even in his sleep.

Giggling a little when he starts to snore quietly, she only leans back against the soft pillow behind her back when she is convinced that he's as comfortable as he can possibly be.

The small smile doesn't fade from his lips, and neither does hers as she watches him like this.

Tired she may have been, but there's nothing left of that as she sits in that beautiful bed with her True Love sleeping at her side. It's a lovely prospect indeed to just stay like this for a long time.

And if she were to fall asleep after all... well, she can't think of a more perfect way to do so than like this, reclining against the headboard with his head pillowed on her thigh.

The fixed cup is still standing on the small table next to the bed, visible in the corner of her eyes. It's almost difficult to believe that the china, just like her relationship with her True Love, was broken until so very recently, seemingly damaged beyond repair.

But here they are, together and whole, not quite unblemished but so much better than they were before.

There'll be a lot to rediscover and reclaim, so much that she'll have to learn and find out all over again. But whether she can recall the past or not, there's a whole new life ahead of her. She's got her freedom, the love of this wonderful man, a home they can share, a future together.

With or without memories, Belle has a life worth living.


End file.
